


Sometimes Goodbye is a Second Chance

by ArdenSkyeHolmes221



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternative Universe freeform, Angst, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, POV Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter Stark - Freeform, Please Don't Hate Me, Single Parents, Strained Relationships, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdenSkyeHolmes221/pseuds/ArdenSkyeHolmes221
Summary: "I'm sorry life gave you two shitty parents, Peter. You deserve so much better. I honestly, truly am so fucking sorry. Because I know how much it sucks. After all these years I still love my mother.... I'm human, bud; I'm flawed and full of anxiety and an insomniac and I could list my issues to you for hours but I want you to know I want you now and forever, Peter. You're my kid. Okay? For better or worse, we're a team now and I'm all in. Are you?"





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. If I don't post this now I'm going to keep making excuses. As promised, I am FINALLY sharing my long ass WIP. It's not finished but it IS outlined. You'll have to excuse the wonky timeline, but know I've had in mind that everything in the MCU will happen eventually. Mostly I think of this as post-Ultron and pre-Hoco. 
> 
> This is going to be a character study more than anything else. There will be plot but my main focus is Peter and how he'll deal with the struggles I have planned for him. And I'm W O R R I E D the characters are going to seem very OOC... and that's been a struggle as I write. But please keep in mind the situation. All I ask. 
> 
> Title inspiration came from the band Shinedown. I don't own the song or anything recognizable.

* * *

He’s never been a morning person. Well, perhaps at one point in his life— but recent years have cemented the fact that Peter Parker is not a morning person. Energy reserves are depleted and he has zero filter; it’s best if he doesn’t talk. So most mornings are delicately brutal on his nervous system but it is especially true today. It doesn’t even help his motivation that it’s the end of the week. All he wants is to find his misplaced backpack.

“Peter, you’re going to be late!”

Jaw flexes and a few rushed breathes later, Peter replies, “I know, May; I’m trying to find my backpack!” He hopes it doesn’t come out bratty. Years of stern reprimands echo in his subconscious. “Have you seen it?” he asks, poking his head out into the hallway. 

“Not since Ben asked you to move it last night,” his aunt replies, turning around to look at him and she’s all dressed up in her scrubs uniform for her shift. “I’m sorry, Pete.” 

He nods, “I’ll find it and catch the next train. Go on ahead. No point both of us being late.”

“I won’t be back until way after dinner,” May reminds as she fishes out her house keys. “You two’ll be fine, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answers distractedly, eyes roaming across what parts of the hallway and kitchen he can see halfway out his bedroom. “We’ll be fine.”

“Love you, goofball.”

Aunt May’s farewell brings a smile and Peter echoes the sentiment, waves her off, and spins back into his bedroom to search for the missing item. 

“I mean... it should be here,” he mutters aloud, eyes roaming the semi-messy bedroom. Uncle Ben has asked him twice now this week alone to clean his room and Peter knows to avoid a third ask. He’s pretty sure he didn’t leave it out on the streets again. “Ah-ha!” he races across the room and spots a navy blue strap, tucked between twin bed and wall beneath the window. “Found ya!”

Peter slips the straps onto his shoulders and jogs out the room. A glance at the stove clock tells Peter he missed his usual train several minutes previously. Oh well. He swipes a banana and heads out the door, locking up as he goes. 

Just a matter of time before he was late for the internship. Well, first time being late for the Friday portion of it at any rate. Peter’s actually mildly impressed he made it ten weeks into the program without showing up late.

He merges into the bustling crowd.

 

* * *

 

Less than an hour later, Peter rushes inside Stark Tower as quickly as he can, passing through check points where appropriate, and keeps a tight grasp on his key card as he maneuvers around employees a bit on the awkward side. His breathing is even, though his anxiety is niggling at the base of his skull. If he lets it, it’ll blossom into the pit of his belly and then it’ll be a long evening. And he’s honestly not focusing on his increasingly obnoxious senses. The teenager is of the belief if he ignores a problem maybe it’ll go away. As Peter passes the final check point and enters the main lobby proper, he immediately beelines for the elevator straight ahead instead of the handful banked for the regular employees.

He swipes his card again and FRIDAY grants him entrance. Peter steps inside and the doors close a beat after he’s situated. 

“Good afternoon, Mister Parker.” comes from on high in a soft, Irish lilt. 

“Hiya, FRIDAY.” the teenager greets, pushing his body further into the corner. “Is Doctor Stark upset with me for being late?” 

“Boss does not appear upset, Mister Parker.” 

Peter leaves it at that. 

Friday afternoons are his favorite days of his Stark internship because he gets to mentor under Tony Stark for a couple hours. Back in April, Peter had been one of five students selected throughout the city’s five boroughs to begin a new high school internship program Pepper Potts had designed. (He suspects its birth is a result of Ultron and a need for positive PR.) Peter hadn’t signed up for any kind of internship so needless to say he was puzzled when approached. But the qualifications were the smartest student from each borough and Peter happened to be Queens’s candidate. Peter also happens to be the youngest for the summer program at fourteen and a freshman. None of the four other interns made mention of his age after the first week, so Peter valiantly tries to let it not bother him. Easier said than done, though the following months have helped the young teen to settle into his own a bit more comfortably. His main internship instructor is a rather boring, stout man named Doctor Reyes who definitely is unafraid to call out his interns for inattention. Luckily, Peter’s built up years of tolerance when it comes to being called out and bossed around. 

“Your exit, Mister Parker.”

Peter startles, shaking his head and striding forward, cheeks heating slightly as he offers up, “Right, thanks FRIDAY.” 

“My pleasure, despite it being what I’m programmed to do.” 

It pulls a half-smile as Peter walks partially down the hallway, swiping his badge again and listening to the nearly silent _hiss_ as the glass doors open. He shuffles inside and it doesn’t pull the attention of his preoccupied mentor. In fact, Peter sees nobody. Couple steps forward, craning his neck without moving as the teenager searches out an eccentric engineer. Cramps spasm in his belly. 

“You got this, Peter,” he murmurs and after taking a second glance around to spot his missing mentor, Peter maneuvers right toward an empty workbench. Slips off his backpack and tucks it between bench space and wall before beginning to unload the day’s supplies on his desk. “Stop freaking out.” 

He can handle being alone so long as he follows Mister Stark’s laboratory rules. It certainly isn’t the first time he has been alone in the lab; however, it is usually after his mentor has been around to instruct him and pass on oddly phrased compliments. He pauses. Had he referred to his mentor as doctor earlier? He did, he recalls with scrunched up nose. 

“You’re so bad at this, Peter,” he keeps up the string of verbal abuse until finishing compiling the day’s materials. “The least you can do now is follow directions.” 

Based on materials as well as last Friday’s lessons, Peter pieces together Mister Stark wants him to reframe a circuit board. Easy, thankfully. Peter hates bragging, but he could reframe this in his sleep and so his hands mend, mold, shift, and dance around without much coherent thought as he begins assembling. His brain welcomes the task as his thoughts take a reprieve. He settles into a meditation daze and tries not to consciously think about hoping he’ll stay in it indefinitely. 

But a noise jerks Peter out of his rhythm. He glances around and notes the workshop is still devoid of life aside from himself. A heavy sigh causes his shoulders to drop. His eyes travel toward the tinted windows and Peter fidgets as he attempts to lose his train of thoughts again. 

“Stop picking at your hangnails, Parker.” 

“Oops, sh— I’m sorry!” Peter jumps, fingers flying apart from each other as he turns around to face his smirking mentor directly behind him. “Hi!”

“Relax. But if you did draw blood then I am going to ask you to go wash your hands and put ointment on.” Mister Stark’s reply is calm, an enquiring eyebrow raised as he meets Peter’s gaze, and after Peter glances down and negatively shakes his head, his mentor carries on. “And hello to you, too. Sorry I’m late. Got held up in my personal lab because of an idiotic robot of mine. Let’s see what you’ve started in the meantime.” 

“Well I was late first, I suppose. You’re fine.” Peter twists back around as his mentor’s approaching footsteps carry the engineer closer. 

“I have the habit of running late, just ask my CEO, but I promise I try to be on time for internship related things. Whoa. So, that wasn’t the intention of today’s lesson.” 

“I’m sorry!” Peter’s hands drop the project with minimal noise, his voice cracking at the admittedly high-pitched apology. 

“No, no. Kid, that’s not a bad thing. Look, this is a learning experience for both of us, remember?” Mister Stark speaks quickly, almost as if he is unaccustomed to placating distressed teenagers. 

 _Why would he be, Peter? Stupid, stupid!_ “Yeah,” breathes Peter. 

“So I’ll change the plans. No big deal.” 

Peter nods jerkily a few times. Catches his breath. Then, “Are the— I mean, are the other interns not used to working with circuit boards like this?” he motions at his abandoned work with his chin. 

“Ah,” Mister Stark fumbles before correcting, “I mean some experience, though in comparison to you completing that in a fraction of the time I anticipated it would take, no.” 

“I’m sor—”

“Nope. None of that, if you please, Mister Parker. Don’t apologize for your own intelligence or learning styles or being behind or ahead the other four interns, capiche? Or in general, frankly.” Mister Stark starts pulling holographic monitors around Peter’s workstation. “We all pace differently. Now, I changed my mind. I wanna see if you can build an outline of an A.I. today. Up for the challenge?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t sound so confounded. I’ll assist you. Though you obviously need the challenge.”

“Right.”

“Where’s your enthusiasm?” 

“Lost, I suppose.” 

“Well our team needs stronger morale, so I hope one of us finds it before the day’s up.” 

Peter laughs under his breath. “Are you saying teamwork makes the dream work, Doctor?”

“Ugh, kid— can you _not?_ ” his mentor groans not unlike a bratty teenager and tosses him dark scowl that loses any heat by a smirk he can’t hide. “The d-word gives me hives.”

“Then why’d you get your doctorate?”

“PhD, actually, but it’s really the same thing. Okay, now that I’m finished being a bossy know-it-all, I got it because that was the only way I stayed at MIT for four years.”

“I mean— wow. I know you were a little bit older than me when you entered MIT but I didn’t realize you finished all your schooling before you were twenty?” 

“Was I twenty?” his mentor’s eye flick upward and Peter watches as the older man fidgets in thought. “Wait, actually I finished right before my twenty-first birthday. Not as impressive as it sounds. Plus I eventually went back again and again.”

“Uh, not to be rude, sir, but most people only have their BA by twenty-two. I think you earned your doctor title.”

Mister Stark tosses a plastic pen at Peter’s head and Peter fights to not twitch out of the way. Mentor rolls his eyes once it flies by his student’s head, barely missing but missing all the same, and Peter grins triumphantly. 

“Alright, kid, let’s see how this new project goes. Don’t freak out; I promise I’m going to help you. Would you like to start with blueprints or for me to give you a run down?”

Peter pauses before answering, “Let’s start with a quick run down, if that’s okay?” 

“Excellent choice, Mister Parker. So—” here Mister Stark claps his hands and begins pulling up holographic designs and allows the blue screens to hover before them as the older man closes the distance— “you know FRIDAY and of course you know the lesser knowns Alexa and Siri and whatever marketable designs out there, but let’s break them down to coding.”

“I’m not the best at coding, sir.” 

“Part of the challenge, then. We aren’t going to have a finished product today. No pressure here only enjoyment and learning.”

“What are the similarities between a circuit board and building a foundation for artificial intelligence?” 

And Peter must ask a great first question because Mister Stark careens into a twenty minute tangent that Peter mostly follows, asking questions when he doesn’t or sidetracking it when he begins connecting the dots. 

“When do we get to name the A.I?” Peter wonders curiously at one point, a sly smile quirking up a corner of his lips as he takes in a frantic Mister Stark across the workbench. 

“Ha, I suppose at any time you deem necessary. I generally wait until the end if only because the name never comes to me and I kind of like to see how the personality coding takes before finalizing it.” 

Peter bobs his head in comprehension, “I don’t wanna use a pretentious name, though.” 

“Do you think FRIDAY is a pretentious name?” 

“Not at all! I kind of like it. Though I have to say the first time I heard it I got really confused because I thought you were referencing the day of the week.” 

“Always Friday when you’re retired.” 

“But you’re not retired?” 

“Always Friday when you’re a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.” 

“Eh, I feel like it would always be a Monday. And wait— are you still considered the CEO? I'm confused."

“Yeah, you’re right. Bad example. No, technically not anymore besides the fact it's just my company? I'll explain it in more depth to you later if you'd like.” 

"I'd like!"

“Alright, so no pretentious name or days of the week name for your A.I. Something common then? How about Mary?”

Peter’s back goes rigid and he tries to play it off by stretching, eventually croaking out, “Can’t. That’s my mom’s name and that would be weird.” 

“Ah. Weird indeed because my mom had the Italian version. Right. Something more cutting edge then? Like, Persephone?” 

“Has potential. But I’m a simple person. I was thinking like Karen or Liz or—”

“Karen would be a nice change of pace from every other A.I. I’ve worked on. Let’s name her Karen. Hand me that ruler, will you? Thanks kid.” Mister Stark draws four quick lines before his attention is drawn upward at his electronics again, balling up a design and tossing it behind his back. A buzzer sounds and Peter shakes his head at the slam dunk, still impressed by it despite it not being the first time he’s witnessed the extra flare. “Here look— see right here? First mistake. If you wanna build an A.I. this is what not to do.” 

Peter’s startled laugh pulls a reluctantly fond smile from his mentor and the teenager cherishes the sight, warmth sitting softly inside his chest. 

 

They work through lunch. 

“Boss, I know you like to skip meals but I would not recommend allowing a growing teenager to miss them.” 

Peter’s head comes up, neck cracking in several places audibly, as he meets his mentor’s startled expression. 

“What time is it, FRI?” 

“It’s now 1:52 in the afternoon. The forecast is sunny and eighty-four degrees out in Manhattan.” 

Peter blinks. 

“Guess we should break so you can eat.” 

Now that Peter’s thinking about food his stomach imitates a humped back whale. Mister Stark chuckles so the teen hides behind his folded arms. _Stupid enhanced metabolism,_ he internally huffs in irritation. _Always popping up at the most inopportune times!_

“C’mon, no need to be embarrassed, Peter.” His mentor slaps his shoulder and gives a quick nudge. “Off to the cafeteria we go. We’re at a good stopping point at any rate. C’mon, c’mon, before the ravenous stomach consumes my best intern.” 

Peter scoots off his stool and trudges after his mentor, head tilted downward despite his elongated spine and mumbles pleas for a floor to open up and eat him for lunch instead. 

Thankfully the silence does not linger.

“So it’s your aunt, then, who’s the trauma nurse?” questions Mister Stark as they enter the private elevator. 

Startled from his negative train of thought, Peter answers, “Yeah. Aunt May actually works here in Manhattan.” 

“And your uncle is a cop?”

“Detective, actually. Pretty cool.” 

“Ooh, like a badass on _Law & Order_?” here Mister Stark snorts and side-eyes Peter like he wants his pop culture reference to be appreciated. When Peter refuses his smirk to bloom, the man pushes onward, “What kind of detective is he?” 

“Narcotics.” 

Mister Stark whistles, impressed. “So why do you live in Queens if your aunt has to travel so far every day?” 

“Because Uncle Ben works in Queens and it’s easier to commute to his precinct when he’s on call. And truthfully, it has a lot to do with the fact he was raised there, too.” Peter says honestly. “I was born in Manhattan but Mom’s raised me in Queens basically ever since. Mom is partial to our borough choice for a few reasons but she’s always told me it was the best place to raise a kid. Sucked for her, too, because her commutes were as long as or longer than Aunt May’s.”

“What’s your mother do?”

“Oh. She used to be a microbiologist. Dabbled a bit in genetics, but turned into a researcher. She commuted to Connecticut for about a year when I was eight for a super fancy research facility.”

“Never did like biology but can definitely appreciate it. What about you? Gonna jump ship and intern next summer at, say, John Hopkins or some other prestigious hospital looking at germs and bacteria all day?” 

“Haven’t thought about it,” he replies, calm, hiding his eye roll, then he follows his mentor out of the elevator when FRIDAY opens up and trots beside him as they head down toward twin sets of double doors hiding the buzzing cafeteria. “Probably not, though. Besides I’m not in college? Anyway I definitely do not think I have an eye for biology only. I’m good at it because of my mom but that’s about it. And I don’t think I’d appreciate bioengineering as a field of interest as much as I think I should.”

“Fair enough,” the older man glances down at his left side before continuing on, “And your dad?”

“Err, he’s not in the picture.” Peter pauses and stumbles on his next step. “I’ve never meet the man. And I don’t think Mom ever liked him, to be honest.” _Just like your father, Peter. God, it’s like looking at his clone._ Peter pushes away the echoing memories. “My stepdad worked in genetics but he passed away when I was like four and Mom never remarried.”

“Sore subject. Didn’t mean to bring it up.”

Peter shrugs off the apology. “You didn’t know. And I have no filter some days; it’s alright. Kinda happens when it’s always been me and my mom. The rambling, I mean, to fill silences. I’m going to stop talking now.”

A side-eye and genuine chuckle proceeds his mentor opening the left door and holding it for Peter.

"All the same, kid; Pepper tells me I need to learn boundaries or minding my own business. And learn tact.”

“I’ve gotten similar pleas throughout my life, too, ironically enough.” pouts Peter. “Oh, speaking of, will you please have lunch with me today?”

“FRI,” Mister Stark moans out his displeasure with an over dramatic head roll until he faux-frowns down at his intern. “She’s got you pegged down. You’re like one of four people— yeah, I’ll have lunch with you. C’mon.” 

And who is gonna say something as Peter strides behind his mentor sporting a smug expression?

 

* * *

 

“Hey, I’m home!” calls out Peter as he shoulders open the front door. He’s not sure if Uncle Ben is here or not, seeing as how both aunt and uncle carry chaotic and unreliable schedules. “Is anyone else?”

“In the bedroom, Pete!”

The teen meanders down the hallway, dropping his backpack into the lip of his bedroom before poking his head inside the master bedroom. His uncle is in the process of looping a belt through jeans. 

“Just get home?” he asks, leaning his hip against the doorjamb. 

“Not too long ago.” Uncle Ben replies, smiling at his nephew.

“How was your shift?”

“Probably not as exciting as your day,” teases his uncle, ushering the boy out of the bedroom and back toward the front room of the two bedroom apartment. “Little bit of driving, a lot of useless paperwork, didn’t arrest anyone today but did get to interrogate someone. Same ole detective adventures.”

Peter rolls his eyes with a wide grin, sitting on the sofa and shifting around so he’s facing his uncle head on. “I’m just trying to be nice!”

“Oh, I know you are, Pete,” snickers his uncle, propping his feet up on the coffee table since his wife isn’t home. “But now that we have gotten the pleasantries out of the way, tell me what you did with Doctor Stark?” 

“Well,” Peter takes a noisy inhale, “he gave me the spiel again about how much he dislikes it when I refer to him as Doctor.” he begins his own spiel, rambling on for several minutes as he catches Ben up on his morning and mid-afternoon, and concludes, “I’m not that great at coding.”

“I have no doubt in my mind you’ll get the hang of it much quicker than you think you will.” Uncle Ben reassures, reaching over to squeeze Peter’s knee. “You’re a smart kid, Petey. You need more of a challenge than refurbishing junk like PS2s and PCs and MP3 players. You know how I feel about the internship and all the opportunities it’ll offer you.”

“You’re the only one,” Peter mutters, mood turning sour as he crosses his arms over his chest and can’t help but pout childishly. “Aunt May doesn’t really like Mister Stark, even though she hasn’t met him! And we both know how Mom feels about it.”

Ben sighs. “Your aunt shouldn’t judge someone so quickly, you’re right. But she is very happy you have this opportunity.” Here he takes a deep breath and gives Peter’s knee another squeeze before clasping his hands together. “Speaking of your mother, I got a call from Mary while you were gone.”

“What?” Peter shifts around from slouching to sitting up properly against the armrest. “She did? I just talked to her Monday! I thought she only had one phone call privilege a week. She’s never called us more than once before now.”

“I mentioned it to her and she said she’s had two calls a week for about eight weeks but usually the times available have long lines and she only has so much free time.”

Peter huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop that.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “What did she have to say; was it complaining about my internship again?”

“She’s going to be released on the thirteenth.”

“What do you mean she’s being released next weekend?” he frets, shifting around until his knees are pulled into his chest. “I th— I thought she’d get out at the end of the month, like after I start school back up?”

“Nope; it’s a twenty week program. I’m sorry, Petey.” his uncle tugs on his ankle until Peter unfurls and scoots toward the detective, fitting into Uncle Ben’s side. “I know— look, I know you and Mary have a lot of issues and you don’t feel comfortable going back after what happened in March. I do not blame you for not wanting to see her in rehab. I especially don’t blame you after how she treated you the first time we went and you told her about the internship. You needed this time apart as much as she did, Peter. 

“But, I told Mary I’d pick her up. She sounded anxious to see you, bud. She’s been through a lot, too. I’m not making excuses, but she is your mother.”

“I— I, um... do I have to go— I mean, am I leaving next weekend? Do I have to go back with Mom?”

Ben tucks Peter under his chin, saying, “Not right away, no. We’ll have you here for at least another month, maybe a bit longer. Mary’s been court ordered with a list of requirements before she can get you back, like a place to live and a stable job.”

“Do I—” his eyes shut, focusing on working passed the anxiety-induced stutter, “I have to go back though?”

“I— yeah, Petey. If she dots all the Is and crosses all the Ts... then you’ll have to go back to her. Go back to your mom. We— May and I aren’t your parents.”

“Yeah, but what if—” 

“Peter—”

The teen pulls away, protesting, “No, Uncle Ben, I’m—”

“Hey, hey, c’mere.” Peter doesn’t get far before his uncle is hugging him, pulling away to grasp onto his upper arms and holds eye contact. “I promise you I’ll always be here for you. Do you understand? My door is forever open for you, Peter. I don’t care about any bullshit from Mary's and Richard’s pasts— you are my nephew. I take care of family. You call me and I’ll come get you, no questions asked. But you do need to try and have a relationship with your mother.”

Tears prick his vision, but Peter locks his jaw and stews in silence until he feels more in control. 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know. You’ve had a lot of responsibility thrust onto you. I just want you to enjoy being a teenager— not worrying about taking care of your mother coming down from a bender.”

On a harsh exhale he admits, “I don’t think I know how.”

“Just— I dunno, hang out with Ned more. Try and stop bailing on him. He’s good people.”

“I— yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good kid.” Uncle Ben kisses the crown of his head. “Hey! What do you wanna do for your birthday on Wednesday?”

“Ice cream!” cheers Peter, gladly taking the bait of a subject change.

His uncle’s booming laugh fills the heavy air and breaks the remainder of the lingering tension. “Oh, bud, please don’t ever lose that sweet tooth.”

“I doubt I will,” he grumbles then grins cheekily. “Still don’t know where I got that from, though.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t help curb it.” Ben chuckles. “Serious, though bud, where do you wanna go before the ice cream?”

“We can eat here, I’m fine with that.” he tries to deflect, worried about how their tight budget.

“Nope. Leave convincing May to me, you worry-wart. It’s not everyday my nephew turns fifteen.”

“I thought next year was the big milestone?”

“Nope, it’s seventeen because then you can do magic outside of Hogwarts and learn to Apparate.”

Peter tips over from giggling so hard. “Then what’s so special about fifteen?” Uncle Ben pulls a silly face as he reminds him about wizarding tests so Peter hides his face in his hands, body shaking. “My bad.” he croaks out right before Uncle Ben nudges him before he gathers control. “Um, I’m good with Thai?”

“That we have all the time? Pete,” scoffs his uncle with a dubious expression knitting his eyebrows together, “pick something good!”

“Italian from five blocks over, final offer.”

“If you insist,” Ben mocks but doesn’t hide his smile. “I’ll convince your aunt. All I have to do is just smile real devilishly at her and maybe if you clean your room, too, she’ll be doubly convinced.”

Peter’s eyes widen and he shoves off the sofa, sprinting down the hallway, crying out, “I didn’t forget, I swear!”

Ben’s laugh follows him all the way inside his bedroom.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen to me. If your mother relapses, you have to tell someone. You need to stop parenting your mother."

Tuesday afternoon, after the internship lets out and Peter leaves the Stark Tower complex as quickly as humanly possible without raising alarms to businesspeople and lawyers and scientists alike, finds Peter with four free hours before either aunt or uncle are due home. He takes the subway back toward Queens and begins his search for an appropriate alleyway. It’s been over two weeks since he’s gone around as his alter ego. And because he doesn’t go out often, Peter gets paranoid right before changing, forever fearful someone is going to catch him changing into the homemade getup. He relies on his more useful anxiety based out of the back of his neck, courtesy of the radioactive spider bite, when changing. Finally he decides on an alley and a dumpster, Peter tunes into the extra sense and changes perfunctorily. 

“Ah, come on!” he hisses under his breath upon seeing his ankles after the sweats are pulled up. “I just bought these! The one time my body decides it needs a growths spurt and I’m short on cash. Lovely,” he gripes as he finishes dressing, situating the mask over his head. “Yay for not being short forever, though?” 

Once finished, he stands and stares at his backpack. “No, can’t leave it and chance it getting stolen again.” He shoulders the bag before twisting and jumping high, attaching himself to the brick building next to him and scurrying up it. Since the building isn’t an apartment complex, Peter feels comfortable leaving the bag up here during his patrol. The canisters for his webshooters need replacing and Peter slips in the last two easily enough. 

“Do I have any more at home?” he questions aloud, making a face as he pictures his room at his aunt and uncle’s, envisioning the stash in the closest beneath several hoodies on the floor. 

If his supply is as low as he thinks, he’s going to have a hell of a time stocking up before school starts in two weeks. Granted, he made an impressive amount in the short amount of time following the bite in April and before Midtown let out at the end of May considering he had to make and test several batches before finding the current working one. Especially considering he hadn’t been following his normal schedule at that point.

“Okay Peter, enough time congratulating yourself. Let’s go!” he jumps up and down three times then jogs to the edge of the rooftop, bouncing on his toes and does a flip off. “Woohoo!”

Peter is going to make the best out of his last patrol before school starts up, then. 

He loves the thrill of free falling. Since addiction runs in his family, Peter thinks being an adrenaline junkie is better than being addicted to drugs or alcohol. Better to have his addiction help others instead of hurt them.

As he thwips and releases, movement on the pavement draws his attention. He doesn’t release the next web and keeps low to the ground on his downward swing. Then he flips onto the scene lithely and perhaps it’s extra flare than warranted but it pulls a huge grin behind the mask.

“Hey pal, you can’t steal someone’s bike.” he articulates from behind someone attempting to jack a chained-up bicycle. “That’s not polite.”

“Huh?” comes the intelligent reply from the twenty-something thief, peering over his shoulder with a crease between his brows. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Peter rolls his eyes, and focuses on making his voice deeper, “Some call me the Spider but I prefer Spider-Man. I’m going to need you to put that back where you found it. Theft’s a crime.”

“Mind your business, asshole.”

“Suit it yourself.” mocks Peter, pushing off the meter reader he’s leaning against and throws the first web. 

“What the fuck!”

“I asked you nicely, dude! It’ll dissolve in like an hour and a half, but the cops’ll be here long beforehand. Don’t steal bikes, okay?”

And he takes to the skies before the would-be-criminal curses him out further. 

Peter swings around several neighborhoods for the next forty minutes. His biggest excitement is stopping a toddler from running out into the street. A furious Latina mother screams in the background, letting off steam at the scare then falls into effusive praises once the child is returned to her in the next breath. It makes Peter jittery so he doesn’t stick around. He stays up high afterward. 

His patrols are unpredictable. Okay, a lot of that has to do with Peter genuinely being sporadic in how often he goes out and what he plans on attempting during his free time. He generally stays pretty low-key like giving directions or helping the elderly cross the streets; he’s also saved three cats from trees and kept a Scottish terrier from getting hit during rush hour traffic on his previous patrol. 

Tonight isn’t any different.

He helps a woman with an armful of groceries and a baby in the other arm find her apartment keys. She offers to make him tea but he declines. Then it gets pretty boring.

Eventually the constant stimuli pokes and prods then possesses him, so Peter decides his time out is finished. Overall, the afternoon had been normal and unobtrusive. Until he’s swinging back and his amplified senses convince him that he isn’t done yet. 

An especially erratic heartbeat grabs his attention and Peter’s head is whipping around the streets below attempting to find it. He barely takes any time to comprehend why he can make out one over literally thousands of others; but upon seeing an intersection change traffic flow and a beat-up sedan making its way at an alarming rate, Peter theorizes he won’t make it down in time to avoid a crash. 

He drops down all the same. 

Right in the middle of the intersection and cars immediately begin honking. Yet Peter’s focus isn’t on the irate drivers yelling at him out their windows but on the car that’s barreling into the intersection through a red light. Sprinting full throttle toward the car, Peter crouches for impact and throws out his arms. He barely has enough time to breathe in, preparing to catch the weight of a speeding car as it slams into his hands. Metal crunching echoes and Peter wobbles.

“Oof,” he breaths out, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Oh, my God!” 

“Did you see that?” 

“What just happened?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Someone call an ambulance!” 

Peter releases the hood of the sedan, flexing out his fingers as he beelines toward the unconscious driver, tugging on the handle with care, and focuses on the still erratic heartbeat. 

“Is he okay?” 

Upper body pulling out of the car’s interior, Peter cranes to see someone in a jogging suit heading his way. “I think he may have had a heart attack,” he admits softly. 

“Let me have a look, I’m off-duty EMS.” 

Peter steps back. 

The heart continues thumping, filling his eardrums like a second, off-beat internal metronome, and watches as a handful passersby works to the save the driver. Allows himself to get pulled into the crowd. He can’t look away. Cameras are out recording and the majority of the crowd is a murmuring cacophony beyond the bent car. Thankfully aside from the driver, nobody else has been hurt. 

He can’t look away. Throat constricts and stomach twists viciously. But Peter _can’t look away._

When an ambulance pulls up several minutes later and two uniformed personnel run up to assist the growing crowd of onlookers and good samaritans alike, Peter sucks in a breath, hands twitching at his side. Continues to fall back into the crowd until he spins around and flees.

Nerves thrumming as he heads back to his hideout, changes, and hightails it back to his end of Queens. _Did he just save a life?_ plays on repeat. Stomach churning, Peter’s fearful he might throw up. 

He doesn’t, thankfully, despite the belching.

The hot shower he takes when he gets to Ben and May’s apartment helps. Yet his belly gives him a queasy companion all the way through dinnertime and makes him uninterested in eating. His throat closes up when he attempts a few oyster crackers after a failed sandwich.

He pads into his bedroom and curls under the blankets despite the heat and weak air conditioning, snuggling a raggedy teddy bear as his knees curl up toward his chest. 

“Hey Peter,” comes his aunt’s tired greeting some time after seven, long after he quit picking at his PB&J. “Wanna watch Food Network with me until Ben gets home?” 

“Yes please,” he falls out of the bottom bunk and catapults into the living room to the tune of  Aunt May snorting as he tumbles onto the sofa next to her. 

They watch food competitions for four hours. Celebrity judges are his aunt’s preference and Peter just likes watching someone bake. Peter could probably be a stress baker if he were so inclined. May dozes off and on until Ben comes home after eleven and Peter is wired awake. 

“You’re still up?” his uncle’s question doesn’t hide his shock. 

Peter just shrugs, eyes still on the television screen. 

Before Ben has the opportunity to reply, May jerks awake and steals the attention off Peter. The teen side eyes them as Ben bends down to press a firm kiss to his aunt’s lips and Peter can’t help he noise that escapes his throat. He hears them separate and Aunt May’s sleepily giggles filter into their apartment.

So they may kiss his forehead more obnoxiously than usual as they head off to bed, urging him to do the same as payback.

“I’m going, I’m going.” he gripes, pretending to wipe away his kisses as he stands off the sofa. 

“I don’t need the sass, Petey.” 

“It’s not sass!” 

“Turn off the TV, Peter.”

He grumbles and follows them down the hallway.

“Goodnight, sass master.” Ben calls from the confines of their bedroom.

Peter closes his door on the teasing, echoing the sentiment back, “Night!”

Midnight rolls around and he’s laying in bed thinking about the indecent again. Wonders if he helped save a life or if his good intentions hinder one. Stomach cramps and Peter curls up tight once more.

His phone chirps and he opens Ned’s text. 

**Happy bday, Pete!!! How’s it feel to finally be 15?!**

Pleased for any distraction, especially glad it’s his best friend, Peter spends the next hour messaging back and forth before falling asleep mid-text.   
****

 

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Petey, happy birthday to you!”

Peter blinks groggily as he wakes up, squinting upwards at a smiling Uncle Ben. The teenager rubs his eyes and then it takes him an extra blink to realize what his uncle is doing. 

“Oh my god!” laughs Peter, though it gets stuck in his throat and he clears it. “Are you singing to me?”

“You bet I am, buckaroo!” smirks his uncle as he holds up a plate, “And look what else I did; I made you birthday pancakes!”

“No way!” Peter sits up, tossing off his quilt.

“Didn’t even let May touch them.”

Peter glances up to meet his uncle’s mischievous grin and the two chuckle. Aunt May is a lot of things but a decent cook is not one of them. 

“Thanks, Ben!”

“Wanna eat them in here and then get ready? I’ll take you downtown, too.”

“What? No, you don’t have to; I’ll catch the train like usual. It’s very much out of your way.” he declines, reaching for his sprinkled saturated treat. “You’ll be late.” he says valiantly before stuffing his face with a too big bite and stuffing his cheeks to push in another.

“Chill out, birthday boy, those pancakes aren’t gonna disappear between bites, I swear.”

Peter glances up with wide eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“I promise there’s more batter in the kitchen. I’ll make you another batch when you’re in the shower since you’ve officially reached the garage disposal stage of being a teenager.”

Peter flushes in embarrassment but refuses to slow down. 

“Happy birthday, Peter.” Uncle Ben repeats, softer now, pressing a quick kiss at his temple as he stands. 

“Thanks Uncle Ben,” he matches the tone and his smile feels dopey. 

Fifteen minutes later Peter is showered and dressed and devouring his second plate of birthday pancakes much to his vocal joy, when Aunt May finally makes an appearance.

“Birthday boy!” she cheers, throwing her arms out her sides and then closing the distance to embrace him. “Happy birthday, bug.” she kisses his crown and squeezes him before stepping back. “How’s Ben’s speciality treat?”

“Fabulous! And thank you!”

“I saved you two, hon.” comes his uncle’s wry voice from somewhere in the kitchen then he reappears with orange juice, placing a plastic cup before him. “At least have something semi-healthy this morning.”

“Sprinkles are a major food group, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All the same, humor an old man.”

“I suppose I could do that. Just this once, mind; don’t wanna make it a habit.”

May snorts as she sits down across from her nephew and Peter preens at the attention. 

“Gift now or later tonight?” she directs the question at her husband, but her smile is aimed at Peter. 

“Now, I already promised him.” 

May rolls her eyes and sips at her water. “Go get it then, you big softie.”

While Ben heads down the hallway, Peter jumps up from his seat and washes off his plate quickly. 

“Leave it in there, I’ll get them.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Come sit down, please.” 

As he’s situating himself in his chair once more Uncle Ben returns, setting down a colorfully wrapped, rectangular package. 

“Holy— that’s huge!” 

“Hush you, just open it!” 

“Here, do you need a refresher on how to open gifts? It helps to start at a corner underneath that little flap right there.” 

“I’m fifteen not five, Uncle Ben. I can open it myself, thanks.” 

“Just wanted to be sure since you still haven’t opened it; too worried about winning arguments.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

Aunt May laughs, eyes crinkling and shoulders shaking, “Pete.”

“Sorry,” he sucks in his lips.

He’s slipping his index and middle fingers beneath the wrapping and pulling it away carefully. Uncle Ben huffs dramatically to his left and Aunt May’s giggles turn high pitch at their antics. Peter’s opening it slow to savor the surprise. (And okay, a little bit to egg on his uncle.) 

“Tell me you didn’t.” he whispers upon catching the unveiled top. “You guys—”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought, Peter Benjamin!” 

“May—”

“What did you get?” Ben asks as if he wasn’t the one who bought it. “Come on, come on, let us see!”

“A new snare drum kit.” 

“Let me see it!” 

Peter finishes tearing the paper off and stares at the enlarged picture, surprise and shock numbing his movements. 

“I— thank you.” he pushes out when he realizes the silence has been lingering. “I love it, it’s so great! _Ohmygod_ , thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, buddy. We’re glad you love it. We knew it was time to get you a new one.” 

Chest spasming, Peter has to hide the urge to frown. He’s been playing snare drum since fifth grade. He’d begged and pestered and wheedled his mother into allowing him to take up a musical instrument. He’d been leaning toward joining orchestra instead of band, heart set on practicing cello. His mother softly explained the price difference and Peter acted like he understood, but didn’t fuss any further since she’d agreed to him playing something. He pushes the memories away and smiles widely.

“I appreciate it; can’t wait to show it to Ned!” 

“We gotta head off now, bud; grab your bag and let’s hit the road.”

“I don’t mind taking the train, Ben.”

“I heard you. I have a court appearance in Manhattan today so it works out perfectly.”

Peter eyes his uncle but Ben’s not facing him so he can’t decide whether or not the older man is lying. His questioning gaze turns to Aunt May but she grins mischievously. 

“Chop chop, bug.”

With a playful eye roll, Peter collects his bag and rides downtown with his uncle.

* * *

 

Doctor Reyes is in a mood today, Peter internally rolls his eyes as he tracks the heavy treads of his instructor pacing between his students. Lack of coffee or sleep must have kickstarted his displeasure, the now fifteen year old muses, while Whitney Lopez visibly flinches back and takes the criticism without a word. An honest accident mixing in sulphuric acid yet still stupid because Whitney tops them for the number one spot in safety.

“Abdi and Rafferty, help Lopez finish setting up her new project.” Doctor Reyes prompts, making eye contact with Elyas and Nic, before turning his attention to Peter. “Parker, you’re in charge while I go and find what’s holding up Roberts.”

Peter locks down his body, feeling as his eyes widen and breath shortens, then watches as the irritated Doctor stalks from the laboratory. He waits a couple extra beats. Pushes away from his desk, spinning around and nudging the three remaining students to follow suit. 

“Here, Whitney, let me help you,” murmurs Peter, walking with purpose up front to begin collecting a new Bunsen burner and two new beakers. 

Peter selects an empty table next to his and immediately sets it up, rotating between it and the supply table until Whitney will have everything she’ll need. 

Nic assists Whitney stepping over broken glass while Elyas bends down to scoop up the other girl’s backpack. The three interns shuffle toward Peter.

“Thank you,” whispers Whitney, eyes glued to the ground. 

“You’re welcome.” Peter matches her tone, speaking first as he plugs in the burner. Nic and Elyas echo him. 

They don’t get beyond the first step before Doctor Reyes storms back into their lab, trailed by their college intern Kat Roberts, and Peter bites down the inside of his bottom lip as he measures out liquids. With the internship winding down, they haven’t had an accident of this magnitude since second week, so it’s ingrained and kind of relaxing to help each other out. Whitney’s cheeks lose their color as they continue. Eventually they complete the six steps and while the chemicals react, the four interns watch Kat and Doctor Reyes finish cleanup. 

“Alright, you are all dismissed for lunch.” their instructor says. “And leave your unfinished project. I’ll complete it.”

Peter looks up at the clock on the wall, seeing it’s ten minutes until noon. 

Nic acts like he might say something but when Elyas elbows the dark headed boy, he clams up. 

They trudge out the laboratory in silence. 

The oversized cafeteria does not echo when they enter due to the early time, but employees have the tendency to be in and out of this area throughout the day. Granted, Peter has never been in the building later than four in the afternoon— there’s always several someones in here at any given time. 

Elyas picks a table for them and they chatter away fifteen minutes of their lunch break. 

Five minutes left, Peter stands to throw away his trash and refill his water bottle. Just as he is heading back to his table, a voice calls out, 

“Mister Parker, happy birthday!”

Surprised, the teenager spins around to see his mentor striding toward him in business casual attire and a laid back smile stretching out his goatee. “Hey, Doctor Stark; thank you!” 

The mechanical engineer quirks a brow at the formal address, but Peter refuses to apologize in front of the interns because everyone refers to the man with his proper title. Instead, the man comes to a stop few paces before Peter and his lunch table. 

“Do you have any special plans once you’re finished here?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re going out for dinner and ice cream tonight.”

“Ooh, have a scoop of something good for me!” the man teases then greets the group, “Hey kiddos, how are you?”

Their mentor is bombarded with chipper replies. He listens attentively to everyone before encouraging them to get back to lab and Peter waves along as they shuffle out the cafeteria. 

“Peter, why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday?” questions Whitney once they clear the double doors. 

Peter shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal,” he goes for nonchalance. 

And it really isn’t that big of deal turning fifteen when his mother is in rehab and he’s spending more than half his day at his internship. He supposes it’s part of growing up. 

****

* * *

 

Later that night, Aunt May attempts shuffling Peter and Ben out the door while Petter’s slipping on his black Chuck Taylors when the landline shrills to life. Next to him, his aunt groans and drops the back of her head heavily onto the front door.

“Bill collectors!” his uncle calls out from the master bedroom.

“Don’t answer it!” Peter finishes. 

May pushes off the door and is reaching for the phone on the kitchen counter all the same and Peter mimics her groan under his breath. 

“Parker residence,” she speaks clearly into the receiver. 

Ben wanders in and meets Peter’s eyes, sharing a moment of commiseration because it’s just like May to pester them to leave only for her to hold up the line when they are ready to roll. 

“Hi, Mary. Yeah, Peter’s right here— let me hand him the phone.” 

Peter sends a pleading glance at Uncle Ben but the detective whistles, looking away, and Peter swipes the phone from his aunt with a feeling of mild betrayal prickling in his chest. 

“Hi Mom,” he breathes his greeting, shuffling toward the sofa to plop down. 

“Happy birthday, baby,” his mother’s raspy alto fills Peter’s ear and he closes his eyes. 

“Thank you.”

“I have a card I made you,” she carries on. “I’m so sorry I don’t have a gift for you this year; I promise I’ll make it up to you.” 

Peter hums, uncertain how to reply to her, and ends up reassuring her all the same, “It’s okay, Mom.” 

“Do you have any plans tonight?” 

“We’re actually getting ready to head out for Italian.” he answers, hoping she’ll take the hint. Peter isn’t in the mood to talk to her still. “We were just about to head out the door when you called.”

“Do me a favor? Try something new instead of lasagna, hmm?” her request is dry. 

“Too bad it’s my favorite and it’s my birthday,” he quips back, sliding down on the cushion and failing to hide from the dual gaze of his aunt and uncle from the opposite side of the apartment. _Should have hid inside his bedroom._  

“It is. Actually, I have another reason for calling. Would you mind asking Ben if there’s any chance I can be picked up Friday night instead of Saturday afternoon?”

“Mom!” hisses Peter, sitting up straight now. “I can’t believe—”

“Quit your superiority act, Peter. Can you blame me for wanting to get out of here sooner? I’ve been upstate since April.”

Peter rolls his eyes, biting out, “He’s already had to switch his schedule around to pick you up. I’m not asking. I know he has to work late Friday.”

“Too bad you can’t come and get me.”

“I have to go, Mom.”

“I’ll see you Saturday with Ben, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t wait to see you, baby. Have a good night, okay? I love you.”

Taking a deep breath and exhaling he says, “You too. Bye.” 

The remainder of his birthday is soured by the phone call and not even a double scoop of cookies ‘n cream cheers him up.

* * *

 

“Peter, we need to talk."

The statement comes out of nowhere, Peter muses, sometime after lunch on Friday afternoon. One second he is sliding over pliers at Mister Stark for their joint project and then the man is clearing his throat. Peter’s head gets a crick he glances up so quickly. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks meekly, sparking a flame of insecurity under Peter’s skin. 

“No! No no no, nothing of that sort I promise.” his mentor reassures, setting down the pliers he only just picked up and shifting his stool to face Peter head on. “You’re good.”

He nods, fiddling with a loose bolt. 

“Mister Parker, the program ends next week.” here Mister Stark takes a deep inhale and opens up his posture, maintaining eye contact with the teen, “But I’d like to offer you a more permanent mentorship as my personal intern. I know we’ll have to find a new groove with the start of the semester and it won’t be every day. I’m also happy to discuss details with your guardians. Trauma nurse and… narcotics detective, right?” 

“Right,” he agrees in a daze. “But— wow, Mister Stark. Actually… I’m afraid things might be complicated.” 

“Complicated? How so?” 

Peter’s stomach cramps into several knots at his mentor’s sincerity as well as worried about confessing any truth whatsoever about his mother. “Umm, well—”

A hand is held up, “Let me ask point blank: would you like to be my personal intern, Peter?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. And if your guardians signed a permission slip back in May, then did something happen since that’s changed their minds?”

“No.” 

“Alright. Good, good. Mind filling in the blanks for me then, Pete?” 

Here he takes a deep breath, “Uncle Ben and Aunt May have only temporary guardianship of me. My, uh, my mother’s getting released from rehab tomorrow.” 

Mister Stark leans over the countertop, propping his forearms, before responding, “So we potentially have to have another form filled out, no biggie.” 

“My mom doesn’t— uh….” 

His mentor appears to read Peter’s floundering mind by asking, “Would her dislike of me influence any decision on your internship?” 

“Most likely, yeah.” he answers honestly, their repetitive argument about his summer gig already tumbling around his head. _You’re better than that company, Peter; I don’t know why you stay; you know how much I hate that you’re only interning just to spite me._

“I’ll be more than happy to meet with her to flesh out any concerns. Hell, I’ll even bring Pep along! She knows how to defuse situations.” 

It pulls a reluctant snort from Peter. “I— okay. Yeah, wow. Thank you for the offer, Mister Stark!” 

“You’re welcome, Pete. Is it alright with you then if I call your uncle or aunt to run it by them?” 

“Yeah, sure. I’d try Uncle Ben though because of their crazy schedules his has more flexibility on answering his cell.” 

Mister Stark shoulders shake with his laughter.  Peter thinks he’s laughing at him...but more in the way Uncle Ben does after Peter puts his foot in his mouth or rambles too long instead of say, when Flash slips him crude drawings and Mister Harrington swipes it and Peter gets in trouble for it. It’s a warm sound. 

“Wait— does this mean we get to keep working on our A.I.?” 

“It sure does.” 

* * *

 

Peter hates traveling upstate. He hates traveling long distances, period. Up until he was ten and if they were going on a long car ride, Peter was practically guaranteed nausea at least. Now he’s just unbelievably restless.

“Why can’t I sleep?” the words are harsh, spoken with a bite, he knows, but between being excited about Mister Stark’s offer and dread at picking up his mother today Peter slept a grand total of three hours. “I’m exhausted.”

“Not fair to me then, is it?” his uncle parries back, chipper and bright. 

As he slumps, Peter knocks his head into the window and the door jabs into his shoulder blades. “Not fair,” he grumbles, twisting beneath his seatbelt to sit properly. 

“You’re such a delight when you’re grumpy, Petey.”

He knows he’s being on the unreasonable side. Thankfully his uncle is tolerant of it and eventually extracts coherent conversation out of him.

And that’s how they pass three hours until their exit into Albany. 

Then Peter’s exhaustion eclipses into a ball of queasy nerves as Uncle Ben turns left and the closer they are to his mother’s treatment facility. Last time he saw his mother had been the first weekend of May, thirty days into her rehab stint; and admitting that particular Saturday was horrible would be an understatement. He was ten days post-radioactive spider-bite and coming off ‘the flu’ as well as just healing from the reason for the separation in the first place. Peter has no fond memories of the place. 

He sneezes. 

“Bless you,” his uncle murmurs and spares him a quick glance in concern. “Too early for a cold, hmm?” 

“You know me and my allergies,” he doesn’t know why he says it but it’s the old Peter Parker fall back. Kid with glasses and asthma and an elbow’s length of issues. “It’s probably all the pollen upstate.” 

Ben snorts, indicating a right turn at a red light.

“I’m sorry for all the bullshit your mother has put you through recently, Peter.”

He turns away from the window and stares wide-eyed at his uncle’s side profile. “It— it’s fine, Ben.” 

A huff, “Fine. I’ve done a crummy job obviously since you’ve been with us if all you can say about it is _fine_.”

“Ben, I don’t—” he sucks in a breath. 

“What she did to you was not okay, Peter.” 

“I know that,” the words are tight, lodged at the back of his throat but he pushes them out because this is important. “Isn’t that part of the reason why I’m in this situation?”

“Yes. It is, you’re right. But Peter, you cannot keep taking care of your junkie mother. Mary is on the road to recovery but you need to stop hiding things for her, okay? Mary needs to take responsibility and be the parent. Not her fifteen year old.”

“I know,” he fights the urge to deny but there isn’t a point. Anger swirls in his belly now. “But we’re all each other has.”

“Nope. No, that’s what Mary wants you to think— Peter, you have always had me in your corner; May in your corner. We would do _anything_ to help you.” 

Peter doesn’t know why his uncle waited until they were nearing the facility bringing up this particular conversation but he hates it. Ben’s Focus is claustrophobic and his airways are constricted and nausea stalks him fiercely. Suddenly they can’t reach the center fast enough. Peter wants out. 

“I know. Thank you for taking me—”

“What are you— don’t thank me, Peter, of course I would take you in! But listen to me. If your mother relapses, you have to tell someone. You need to stop parenting your mother.”

“I don’t—”

“You _do_. She’s the adult and needs to take responsibility for her actions. You tell me if she relapses, okay? You are too intuitive about it, it’s frankly frightening.”

Peter sucks in a breath and sniffles. 

“Wait, Petey; I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“‘M not cryin’,” he huffs angrily. 

And of course he’s crying, wiping harshly at his eyes and cheeks with his palms.

Uncle Ben places a hand on his knee in apology. 

They turn into their destination in silence. 

And there she is tucked up against the edifice of the stone building, chestnut hair limp and tucked behind her ears. Peter wonders if he spotted her so quickly because of his enhancements or if he’s only attuned to her. As Uncle Ben directs the car toward the pickup line, Peter observes. His mother’s olive complexion is a pale yellow, sallow like she might be running a fever, or it may simply be that she hasn’t gotten much sunlight over the summer. Peter used to admire her skin against her hair when he was a child due to their differences: he has always been a reminder to his mother of his unknown biological father. 

“Come on,” his uncle speaks as he parks the car, “out you get. Go greet your mother, Peter.” 

Not having a choice, he shoves open the passenger door and stretches as he stands.

“Hey baby,” his mother’s alto is deeper in person than over the phone and it draws him immediately to her presence. “C’mere; let me see you.”

He meets her hazel eyes and a shiver races down the back of his neck. “Hi Mom.” 

Mary Fitzpatrick-Parker walks away from her lone suitcase and envelopes Peter. He sags against her, closing his eyes as her scent wafts. She smells familiar and clinical in turns: tart like lemons she is fond of in her drinks and floral like her favorite lotion, yet there’s an undertone he can’t quite articulate. His mother’s arms wrap around his waist and shoulder. 

She leans in and whispers in his ear, “God, you look more and more like your father.” 

Peter tenses and tries to pull back. “Mom—?” 

“I promise to be better now, Peter.” she carries on as if he had not spoken and her second comment wasn’t his appearance. “I plan on getting you back as soon as possible. Okay? I have an interview lined up on Monday and I’ve had a few meetings with Child Services on what I need to do in order to gain custody of you again. I’ll get it right now, baby.” 

When he pulls away a second time his mother allows it and their gazes lock. He doesn’t say a word. Uncle Ben enters their space and his mother pulls away to greet the detective. His mother reaches for her bag and they amble toward the car and still Peter doesn’t say a word. How can he when Peter isn’t sure if he can trust the words from his mother’s mouth when her lies and actions have proven him wrong before? 

He hopes history may change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I forgot how hard it is to write a novel! This one gave me some problems. Attention to details and not getting caught up in stuff. Forgive me my first few chapters??? 
> 
> Come scream at me in the comments and talk about how we have LESS THAN A MONTH UNTIL ENDGAME!!!!!?!!!!!!!!! 😭♥️
> 
> ps anyone wanna help a poor soul out when it comes to writing summaries? bECAUSE I SUCK AT IT!


	3. Chapter Three

Schools starts back up at the end of August, and while Peter dislikes ending his internship, he’s relieved to return to Midtown if only for normalcy and seeing his best friend every day. And his personal internship with Mister Stark. And yeah okay, Peter likes learning but he’s never been a fan of school, if that makes any sense. So okay he will end up missing the internship and the friends he made and the lessons learned. Otherwise, Peter is like every other incoming sophomore in high school: dreading the early morning wake up call.

He slaps snooze as soon as his alarm goes off. Snuggles down in his blankets and keeps his eyes closed.

Too bad Uncle Ben has court this morning; because Peter doesn’t get to sleep in.

“Up and at ‘em, Petey,” his uncle calls through the closed door. “If you’re showering, you better get hurrying.”

With a disgruntled groan, Peter tumbles out of bed.

Somehow Peter survives his early wake up and makes it to school with time to spare. 

He picked up his schedule and textbooks several days beforehand so Peter makes his way toward his locker, eyes on the lookout for Ned at normal spots they meet up. Back turned to the progressively buzzing hallway as he swipes his Principles of Engineering and Pre-Calculus textbooks, a sharp pinch pricks at the base of his skull. The quick warning allows Peter to brace for imprint as Flash Thompson slams into his back and he stumbles forward.

“Penis Parker survives the summer!” the other teen crows. “I honestly thought the school dropped you when you never showed back up the last month of school.”

Peter locks his jaw, fighting back the urge to tell Flash to fuck off. Because the last time he stood up to his bully, Peter had a week’s worth of detentions and his mother had grounded him for a month.

And it’s probably for the best Peter keeps the attention on himself. A junior shouldn’t be picking on underclassmen, yet here they stand.

“What? Too good to answer me now?”

Peter glances over his shoulder quickly and returns to collecting his things for his first three classes. He closes the locker, spins the combo, and spins around to find Flash hovering. “No.”

“Get ready for Decathlon try-outs: I’m not going to be alternate this year, Parker.” sneers Flash. “It’s time everyone realizes we don’t need scholarship trash around here.”

“Not nice being runner up?” Peter quirks a brow, eyes searching the hallway.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Peter can see the indignation spark in the other boy’s eyes but the warning bell goes off. Flash steps into Peter’s space and gives him a good shove into the lockers.

“Welcome back to Midtown, asshole.” he mocks as he walks backward, maintaining eye contact until he finishes speaking then storms down the hallway, blending in with the crowd.

“How’d Flash find you before I did?” comes from the right and Peter turns to see Ned, slightly out of breath and his brows furrowed. “Sorry I’m late, man. Mom overslept.”

They share their fist bump.

“S’alright,” he murmurs as they finish. “Fairly sure the welcoming committee would’ve found me all the same.”

They head off toward their first class and sophomore years begins.

 

* * *

 

He’s across from his mother, awkwardly pushing around the food on his plate, as the noise of the crowded diner at rush hour niggles at his eardrums.

“Have you had try-outs for academic decathlon yet?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah,” he shakes his head to ward off his multiple trains of thought, glancing up into his mother’s hazel eyes and forcing a smile as his hands fidget on the tabletop. “They were last Tuesday after school and Mister Harrington posted final cut today. I made the team again.”

“Good work, baby. I knew you’d stay on the team.” his mother smiles gently for a quick moment before taking a bite of charred grilled chicken.

“Thanks, Mom,” he whispers then copies her movement by shoving several French fries into his mouth, the abundance of ketchup dripping and going everywhere. Wiping his mouth he asks, “How’s work going?”

“Well, it’s no longer what my degree’s for and I’m not in a lab,” she drawls, “but it’ll do for now.”

He nods.

His hands spasm, as he’s completely unsure what to do or say at this point, so he reaches for his Coke and needlessly sips at it. Unlike his mother, Aunt May has always monitored Peter’s sugar intake and while Peter’s never been particularly annoyed with it, sometimes he just wants the sugar. And it wasn’t ever like Peter was with his aunt and uncle for extended periods of time, current situation excluded. Butyeah, soda’s always filled him up and filled him up fast. His enhanced metabolism is still affected by bubbles. _Lame_ , he thinks staring down at the mess his hands created of the paper straw casing and rolls his eyes.

Yet he keeps sipping so he’ll have something to keep him _busy._

Awkwardness cloaks their table as if it’s a bad first date— well, Peter imagines bad dates would feel some kind of stifling like this moment, except Peter knows the person across the table from him and knows her well— it’s his mother but she may as well be a stranger and an enemy rolled into one bizarre entity. He’ll be the first to admit to being tentative, occasionally, not really one to stir up trouble— but the handful of times Peter has ever stood up for himself it’s kicked him in the ass and knocked him in the teeth. Peter’s learned, to an extent, the importance being hesitant and cautious.

A hand reaching for one of his pulls Peter from spacing out and he blinks up to see earnest hazel eyes watching him.

“Hey,” her tone is gentle, almost cajoling like he remembers when he was little and he never wanted to admit to fearing monsters under the bed or shadows on the walls, and her hand nudges at his until Peter allows her to press their palms together. “I’m gonna do it right this time, baby boy. I promise you. Okay?”

Peter blinks up at her, searching for how sincere she’s being. Because it hurts— five months later and it still acutely hurts in a way that his advanced healing cannot fathom to touch. Peter wants to believe her more than anything. His mother sits across him and she’s been Peter’s rock, support system, and best friend his entire life.

Yet she hurt him and he doesn’t know how to act around her anymore.

Tonight is their third dinner since she’s been released from rehab and Peter is as awkward as a newborn foal around her. His heart begs him to trust her, that people are flawed and make mistakes and he ought to forgive her. And yet... and yet his brain tells him to keep being cautious and his instincts agree. There’s a hum of anxiety embracing Peter whenever he’s with her and it makes him nauseous because he’s struggling to differentiate it between what he feels during his alter ego’s patrols.

His mother tucks chestnut waves behind her ears and the action tugs his focus back to her instead of his wandering thoughts. Despite her continuously telling him how he favors his father, Peter still sees her in his appearance. Their face shapes are identical, except Peter has a wider forehead. His hair is similar in shade to hers, at least in comparison to his eye color which is much darker. But he looks at his mother and he sees safety and comfort: snuggling together on Saturday nights watching _Pixar_ movies and putting together new science kits on birthdays. She sang him to sleep until he started kindergarten, for crying out loud!

More than anything, Peter wants his mom back.

So eventually he murmurs, “Okay.”

“I had a meeting on Monday and the judge says if everything stays on track, then you can come home with me in about six weeks.”

 _So soon?_ he thinks. Instead he presses out, “Why six weeks?”

“It was all apart of my court order and rehab agreements. I have to hold a stable job for over a month and have a place for you to live within your school district. Thankfully, Midtown’s stipulations are looser than a public school, which made finding a cheaper apartment much easier. And six weeks was the earliest the judge and my case worker agreed to review me.”

Her words knots his stomach and Peter pushes his plate away. 

“So I’ll be back with you by the end of October?”

“Sooner, I hope.”

And Peter tries to match her grin, but he knows it falls flat.

 

* * *

 

“It’s complicated at times, it’s okay Peter.” Mister Stark’s assurance does little to soothe an embarrassed teenager. “Here, let’s move away from textbook approach and attempt hands-on. I think we both work better when we can see what’s going on, yeah?”

With his head buried in his hands, Peter shakes his forehead back and forth several times, tapping in on his breathing exercises. Conscious of his reaction and his minor freakout in front of his mentor, Peter pops up. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Coding language is complex,” his mentor reiterates, tone mild. “Trust me, I want this to be challenging for you.”

“YouTube wasn’t as much help as I was hoping,” he mutters offhandedly.

Mister Stark snorts. “I’d imagine not.”

The sigh he forces out his nose has the weight of a couple of Manhattan’s skyscrapers.

“All right, Master Drama King, I’m going to pull up a couple different examples, cool?”

“Did you just call me master?”

“What?”

“Nobody has ever called me master before.”

The noise his mentor makes comes out sounding self-conscious to Peter, yet Mister Stark continues blithely, “Old habit.” 

The teenager’s brows rise. 

“Okay, please stop looking at me like that. I have a stronger will than this but you— yeah, alright I’ll tell you. Jeez. Similar topic at any rate. If you don’t count my dumb robot children, my first self-sufficient A.I. was JARVIS and I emulated him off of my childhood butler. Edwin Jarvis essentially raised me and he was a true Brit so hence my occasional odd word choices.”

“Yeah? That’s so cool, Mister Stark! I can do a pretty solid British accent.”

“Well between my experience with my butler and my godmother, I’ll be the judge of it. Hit me with it, kid.”

“Hold on— I have to get into the right headspace before— _see!_ Sometimes if I am extremely lucky I’ll just slip into it naturally. Fun, isn’t it? My mother tells me I need to work on it but my best friend says it’s solid, so I tend to agree with him.” 

Mister Stark’s laugh fills up their laboratory and it causes Peter to mirror his wide grin. 

“Unfortunately, some words I can’t pronounce that well. Like NASA. It’s too nasally. And then I fall back into my regular ole accent.” 

“Okay,” his mentor allows and holds up his hands palm-up, “I’ll admit that you have a better accent than most non-native speakers. But if you’re taking critiques, I have to say your issue isn’t so much maintaining it but is fluctuating dialect.”

“Huh. Surprisingly, that makes sense.”

“Are you a big fan of NASA?” 

Peter’s eyes widen at the subject change, “Yeah!” Then he remembers he brought it up and he’s wearing the space station’s logo shirt. Still, too late to take back the jubilation tumbling out now.

“My best friend is fairly knowledgeable about aerospace engineering.”

“No way! Wait, did you— are you referring to Mister Rhodes? It’s so easy to forget that Air Force personnel have the tendency to have aerospace engineering as their backgrounds. Ahh! If you would have asked me several years ago, that’s the answer I would have given you about what I wanted to be when I grew up.” 

“Yeah, one and the same,” snickers his mentor before he asks, “But what changed your mind?”

The answer is heights, but now it causes him to pause. Peter shrugs in reply, trying not to show his mentor the crisis he’s having upon realizing he’s no longer afraid of heights in the traditional sense. “I dunno, really. Am I not allowed to change my mind?”

“Of course you’re allowed,” Peter misses the eye roll but he can hear the playful-sarcasm clear as day. “But I’ll entice my honey-bear that I have a nice teenager for him to meet so you can geek out about rocket science with him?”

“You’d be my favorite person ever!”

Mister Stark scoffs, “And I’m not now?”

“Difference between favorite hero and favorite person, didn’t you know?”

“Okay, smartass, tell me the difference between the three languages in front of us.” His mentor tosses up three holographic screens and waves his palm at the images to prompt Peter into studying them. 

“I’ve seen this line of code,” Peter immediately points at the middle screen as he leans over his seat. “Isn’t this the one you mentioned you generally like to start a project on?”

“Yes, it is. Great job on picking it out quickly. Now how does that one differ from the other two?”

Peter squints at the three screens before tentatively beginning to explain his reasonings. “They are three various stages?” 

“Are you asking or telling me?” 

A pause, “I’m telling you they’re at three various stages of completion.” 

“Okay. And how’d you know that?” 

“Lucky deduction?” 

“No such thing as luck in deduction, Pete. Talk me through your process and we’ll go from there.” 

Slowly, Peter begins unraveling his trains of thoughts to his mentor. 

Two hours later Peter’s head hurts but he has a stronger comprehension of coding than he did when he came into Mister Stark’s lab. Still, it doesn’t mean that he’s an expert on it either and there’s a minuscule part of Peter that’s disappointed about not having picked it up because he’s become accustomed to picking new activities up with ease. 

“Boss—” FRIDAY’s voice startles Peter enough to whack his hand against the underbelly of a table. 

Somewhere behind them, Dum-E and U and Butterfingers whirl into action, beeping and chirping at the noise, and Peter hopes he doesn’t get hosed down with the fire extinguisher like his mentor did last Tuesday.

Mister Stark tilts his head as if he’s lending part of his attention to his A.I. but the rest of the announcement never arrives. Furrowing his brows, his mentor is opening his mouth to prompt when his and Peter’s attentions are spared toward the front of the laboratory as the glass door opens. 

Peter’s mouth opens at the sight of Stark Industries CEO striding inside confidently. Pepper Potts stops a few feet from where Mister Stark and Peter have set up shop, her expression annoyed and bland all at once. 

“Tony, do you even know what time it is?” Miss Potts asks, arms crossing as her posture straightens once she stops before them. 

Peter glances at his left wrist and winces. “Oh my god, I didn’t realize it was so late!” He wasn’t going to miss curfew, but he was definitely going to be cutting it close to his aunt’s arrival home. 

“FRI, what time is it?” His mentor asks, his eyes tracking Peter’s movements as the teenager zips around to collect his belongings. 

“7:43 in the evening, boss. I tried to warn you several times.”

“Why don’t you invite your intern for dinner since you’ve kept him so late?”

“I didn’t realize—”

He hates it when adults start bickering around him, especially when he isn’t familiar with their dynamics enough to understand if it’s an actual argument or some weird thing most couples seem to do that they deny as arguing, so awkwardly he breaks in with, “Actually, thanks so much for the offer Miss Potts, but I need to head back to Queens.”

He zips up both ends of his backpack and peers up to identical expectant expressions. A feeling of _shit did he do something wrong?_ settles over him. 

“You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner, sweetheart.” Pepper Potts reiterates with soft assurance. “It’s no trouble at all.” 

Peter doesn’t freak out. He’s cool. God, he’s got this under control. “I really— am so appreciative, Miss Potts, but I don’t wanna intrude. And it’s my turn to help with dinner tonight so—” he jambs his thumb toward the lab doors “—I should probably get going or I’m going to be late.”

His mentor exchanges a quick glance with his freshly announced fiancée before an argument appears to settle. “I can at least drive you home?” the man offers, right corner of his mouth ticking upward. “Since I’m the irresponsible one and all.”

“Oh! Umm... you don’t have to, Mister Stark! There’s a train that leaves in like twelve minutes if I hussle so....”

“Let Tony take you, hon. It’ll be quicker.”

And how can Peter decline Miss Potts and his mentor when they’re both being accommodating? He can’t. So he allows his mentor to drive him out to Queens and surprisingly it isn’t as awkward as Peter anticipated.

Strange how anxiety works.

 

* * *

 

“Why do teachers plan tests on Fridays?” whines Peter as he throws himself backwards on his best friend’s beanbag chair. “It’s like they conspire to take away what little happiness I’ve gathered from the week and any excitement I had for the weekend.”

“Education’s a demon, bro, and we need to conquer it.” comes Ned’s quick reply. 

Peter groans.

“Why don’t you have your chem textbook out?”

“Huh?”

“Pete,” a pencil is thrown at his head, “you’re completely useless to me right now. Quit moping.”

“‘M not moping!”

With his eyes clenched and half his body upside down, Peter half-heartedly listens as his friend stands up and walks across the room. There’s rustling noises and then the sound of zippers being yanked open before something nags at Peter’s decidedly not moping brain.

“Wait, Ned—!” his eyes pop open as he scrambles to correct his posture on a disagreeing beanbag.

It’s not any use. Because once Peter faces his best friend Ned is holding up the mask and goggles of his alter-ego’s persona and stares at them incredulously.

Peter’s heart jumps into his throat.

“What— What the hell?” Ned stammers.

“I can explain.” he shuffles forward on his knees, the movements challenging his balance but he’s not worried about looking like an idiot. “Ned, it’s not— okay, no it is exactly what it looks like but let me explain.”

“You’re—”

“Ned—”

“Oh my god, Peter! I thought you were in a gang!”

“Wait! Me?”

“You’ve been acting weird for months—”

“Okay that’s a little harsh—”

“No, it’s fair.”

“So I’ve had a lot of stuff going on!”

“That you have, dude.” A pause. “I’ve watched videos of you on YouTube!”

“You have?”

“Okay so I’m not sure what I thought you were doing but I knew it wasn’t drugs because of your mom, y’know, so like there wasn’t much else I could think up off the top of my head. But you’re not— you’re not in a gang, right?— you’re... holy shit, I’m best friends with Queens’s Spider! Personally I like Spider-Man! I’ve watched so many of those videos on YouTube! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice!”

“Ned! Shut up!”

And the only noise, aside from Peter’s panicked breathing and Ned’s elevated excitement, is Ned’s little sister Arianna’s television from across the hall for several heartbeats. (Okay, immediate sounds because Peter’s attuned to literally _everything.)_ Dark brown eyes widen as Ned keeps staring at Peter, silently imploring him.

“Yeah dude— I’m uh yeah I’m a superhero now, I guess? Which is pretty freaking cool! But it’s— it’s fun but I’m stressed when I go out on patrols? It’s a lot of responsibility but someone’s gotta do it since I have these— these powers now. You’re familiar with Ben’s speeches. So yeah. And I have to tell you waking up after the fact was _not_ fun. And holy shit dude, I’ve saw some of those videos on YouTube too!”

“Wait wait wait wait— before you go on, how the hell did you— y’know?”

“I, uh, may have gotten bitten by a radioactive spider?”

“You WHAT—?!”

Peter slaps a hand over Ned’s mouth. “Shhh! We don’t want Ari coming in here!”

Ned flaps his hands so Peter continues as he sits back on his heels, trusting Ned to keep quiet for the time being. 

“Remember when you told me not to wander off at Oscorp when I felt like I was gonna have an asthma attack? And all I wanted was to get away from Flash being a dick about my inhaler?”

“Yeah and you went into that room— oh my God!”

“Ned, shut up!”

“It was in there?!”

“Yes!”

“You got bit while having an asthma attack?”

“Yep, right in the midst of it and then I had a freak out because I got bit by a fucking spider and you know how much I hate spiders!”

“Holy shit!”

“I know.”

“Wait wait wait a minute, Peter— did you say that it was a _radioactive spider?_ How the hell do you know it was radioactive?”

Peter blinks then rubs the back of his neck. “Umm… well, okay so I may have tested my own blood samples during chem lab a couple of times?”

“And it…what? Came up mutated?”

“Essentially, yes. Nothing else happened to me besides that spider bite. Basic logic,” shrugs Peter. “Rather limited in my kind of research at school, you know?”

“Makes sense, yeah. So now you have superpowers?”

“Yeah. And some other weird shit I’m still learning about.”

“Like…sticking to walls and the webs?”

“Yes and no. I can stick to basically anything and everything at this point—I’ve even accidentally stuck to Uncle Ben several times when he hugs me!— but the webs are nothing more than organic chemistry that I make.”

“You— you synthesized webs?”

“Yep!”

“What is your life, man?”

Peter shrugs helplessly.

After a beat Ned’s lips upturn and he chuckles under his breath.

Peter picks up a sock and tosses it at his friend’s face in retaliation.

“Wasn’t that like— right after all that drama with your mom, too?” Ned enquires after sobering up. 

“Oh yeah.”

“Dude.”

“I _know.”_

“Dude! I’m best friends with Spider-Man! Peter!!!”

“Ned, please stop,” despite the request Peter ends up giggling at his friend’s exuberance. “Put it away before someone sees! Nobody knows about it. I’d be dead and I’d rather nobody find out. C’mon, please?”

“Do you want me to do a secret handshake so that way you know I won’t tell anyone? Scouts honor I won’t tell, you know me dude. But I think I’d feel better if we shake on it.”

Peter thinks it over. He trusts Ned but at the same time this is _huge._ “Yeah, let’s do one.” he nods once before scooting closer to Ned.

They shakes on it for a few moments to seal the deal and Ned zips up the faded black backpack.

“Can I be your guy in the chair? Oh my God, I’m gonna be your guy in the chair! But official and capitalized and everything! Dude! This is way awesome!”

All of Peter’s anxieties dissipate and he crashes onto Ned’s rug and laughs and laughs and laughs. His stomach still knots in fear a mysterious someone someday may find out about his identity, but it feels so wonderful his best friend knows about it now. One other person knows about Spider-Man and Peter’s loneliness lessens just a smidgen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your support you guys <3 and for being patient with me as I get into the swing of writing something so lengthy lol


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gotta get the pre-endgame jitters out...!

Luck has never been a friend of his and Peter doesn’t know what karma he’s invited upon himself from a previous life but it likes to pop up like a demonic groundhog at the most inopportune times and it’s bullshit.

Take patrolling today for example. 

Slow night, mostly, not much to complain about for a newbie superhero besides the fact that Peter’s always down for more action. Due to his schedule, Spider-Man’s patrolling sporadically and his biggest excitement is assisting the elderly and rescuing wayward pets and assisting lost preteens around the city. He likes helping the little guy. But there’s something about stopping a bank robbery or a grand theft bicycle that shoots thrills throughout his body. And he wants more of it.

So after breaking up an backally cats fight out of sheer and utter boredom, Peter finds a perch to survey the city and takes a breather. (Not that he needs one. One pro for the little asshole spider that bit him: no more asthma!) 

His stomach rumbles. 

“Shut up,” he hisses toward his midsection. “You just ate! I don’t understand why I’m always so freaking hungry?”

First mistake: he should have gone home. 

As he contemplates continuing his patrol or stopping to eat with the little cash he has on him or perhaps even going home to work on schoolwork, he detects screaming from what is most likely several blocks over. He sprints left and goes looking for trouble by flipping off the building’s lip. No time for breathers now.

Only, it doesn’t go the way things are supposed to go tonight.

Upon finding the correct occupied place, he sees whom he assumes is a man and woman if stereotypes are anything to go by. Their heartbeats don’t help, especially since both are uptempo. The former is quite a bit larger than Peter in girth and muscle; but he shakes away every doubt that tries clawing its way outta his belly because he is strong now, too. _Get it together, Pete._ He’s not easily cowed by size while he’s out as his alter ego. He won’t stand for bullying. 

Quickly inhaling, Peter heads toward the scene with purpose.

“Hey, hasn’t anyone ever told you to pick on someone your own size?” quips Peter, earning the attention of perpetrator and victim in the alleyway. “Leave the kind lady alone, yeah?”

“Who the hell are you?” asks the guy, his grip on the woman firm but attention is torn between Peter and the woman his body covers. “Better yet, why don’t you get lost?”

Behind his mask Peter smirks. “A friend of a friend. And I don’t think I will.”

Then he flips into action by sailing over the assailant and engaging his webshooters to grab the lady’s odd looking purse. It’s too little to be a backpack, he thinks as the object sticks into his left palm. There’s no further time to contemplate what the object is called because the move steals the bad guy’s attention solely on Peter and he lets the woman go!

Huh. A nice surprise. 

Mindful of how much fluid he’s got, Peter aims for the man’s unmasked face to throw him off his game and to speed this interaction along. 

“The fuck is this shit?” 

“Web fluid,” Peter answers fluidly as he jogs toward the frightened victim, edging along the wall toward the lip of the alley. “Hey hey, I’m going to hand this back to you. Alright? I’m not gonna hurt you. Here you go, ma’am.”

Dark hair flies around her head as the woman nods and reaches halfway to take it from Peter. “Th— thank you.” Her eyes widen and she slips out of view at a fast clip. 

Peter’s extra sense goes off right after purse-snatched-lady’s eyes widen so he spins around and just barely catches a fist to the back to his head. (Or is it his face since he turned around?) His fingers flex on the fist before he shoves it away, sending the purse-snatcher stumbling backward.

“Nothin’ was going on here, pal. So why’d you interrupt what clearly wasn’t your business?”

It’s not often Peter faces a chatty criminal and it kinda sends a series of thrills down his spine. So he’s bouncing around on tips of his toes and tries to assimilate a plan of action. _He can do this, he can do this!_  

“Clearly becomes my business when someone starts screaming in terror.” falls from his lips. 

He fakes a jab, bending down under an arm and standing up straight on the bad guy’s other side. Before nameless creep completes his spin-around, Peter sweeps legs out from under him and webs up the hand closest. He flips around for a better angle on the free hand when he’s yanked down from the air and he lands hard on his side, foot still gripped in Mister Criminal’s free hand. Peter squirms, using more force than strictly necessary but he won’t lie and say he doesn’t panic, and Peter ends up accidentally kicking the guy’s mouth and nose. 

“Oh my god!” squeaks Peter, hands flying up to cover his already covered mouth before some common sense slips back in and he scuttles backwards. “I’m so sorry, dude!” 

“You little asshole!” 

He thinks _yeah, deserved that one_ , and he fumbles around until he’s standing upright again and contemplates the decision if he ought to help the criminal out or if he should web him up and leave him laid up a bit. 

Then the dude curses him out to where Peter becomes uncomfortable and his decision is made. He shoots out two series of fluid, aiming at the man’s free hand and mouth. 

“Goodbye Mister Criminal, sir. Those should dissolve in less than two hours.” he salutes before webbing up the building and jumping across several more to gain distance. 

Peter’s made a couple mistakes within the last ten minutes, he reflects upon sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on a rooftop, ignoring his grumbling stomach, and poking at his inflamed ankle the jerkoff back in the alley managed to inflict. He acknowledges them but doesn’t spare the time on ways to correct them. _Later,_ he promises.

“Ow,” he hisses out upon prodding the ankle. He doesn’t think it’s broken but he is perplexed by the fact a simple, firm grab managed to inflict so much damage to him. Not that Peter’s toyed around harming himself as he’s uncovered his new quirks, but he hasn’t been bruising as easily recently. So Peter had hoped _that_ particular trait of his had been overridden from the bite. “Weird. But whatever. Still functioning. I think? Upwards and onwards, Peter.” 

At any rate, Peter can still walk on it and it only twinges so he’s good to go. 

“Best to quit for the night,” he nods to himself as he realizes how low the sun is on the horizon and winces. 

Off he goes hopping over some more buildings until he reaches the intersection across from Mister Delmar’s. Quick and easy, Peter changes behind an air conditioning system, shoulders his backpack, peers around below to make sure nobody happens to be looking, then he jumps down and lands with bent knees. 

He heads back home. 

Once inside the apartment building, Peter takes six flights of stairs and pulls out his keys as he comes upon 6D. Nobody else is out in the hallway, but the noises from the entire building falls heavily on his senses tonight. Generally, Peter’s worked diligently over the last five months not to be as affected by his enhancements. All the same they have a tendency to go haywire on patrol nights. Like a rough transition after an adrenaline crash, he compares, or rising heavily from a solid five or six to just over a ten-point scale. His senses always bother him but he’s used to it. He unlocks the black front door and shoulders it open.

“Where’ve you been?” Aunt May’s voice greets him, tone firm and definitely not going to take any bullshit excuse Peter plans on giving her. “Aren’t you home sooner than this on a school night?” 

“Uh, hi Aunt May,” he breathes as he hip checks the door closed but it doesn’t latch so he applies enough pressure with his fingertips for it to close properly. “We had decathlon practice tonight and then I stayed later to finish a paper.” 

His aunt hums, standing from the couch and coming to face him in the little space between the front door, hall closet, and the start of the kitchen. “A paper?” 

“Mmhmm. APUSH project. You know how much I don’t like history. Figured the school was a little quieter than here and I forgot to text.” 

He hopes she’ll buy the excuse because he definitely didn’t think she was going to be home this early. Hence why he patrolled. And the icing on the cake is Peter hasn’t checked his phone for missed texts since before leaving school around two-fifty. _Oops_. He fights off the urge to pull out his phone and clasps his hands. 

“Did you get that shiner at school too?” his aunt eventually speaks up, index finger pointing to the left side of Peter’s face. 

“What? I don’t have a black eye.” Now he can’t stop himself from poking at his left eye and _ouch, yep_ that’s definitely swollen and tender like his ankle. He doesn’t even remember that guy getting close to his face! “No, that’s not— I haven’t been sleeping well again. You know how much of an insomniac I am.” 

May closes her eyes, frustration rolling off her posture in damn-near corporeal waves, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose and it pushes her glasses up her forehead. “Peter, there’s no reason to lie to me. I’m not your mother. Obviously I know when something’s up with you. So please don’t lie to me.” 

Offended, Peter bites out without thinking, “I know you’re not my mom and I’m not lying!” 

“Yes, you clearly are lying to me! We don’t have many rules for you to follow here, Peter, but Ben and I assumed you’d give us the common courtesy of not lying to us.” 

“I’m not lying,” he stresses, shrugging off his backpack and fisting the straps. “I _did_ have practice and I _did_ stay late to work on a paper.” 

“For how long?” she follows up. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Pete, c’mon, let’s not do this. You just gotta tell me where you’ve been. I can’t have my kid out and about in Queens without any clue where he’s at. I’m not asking you to give me updates every ten fucking minutes but you should’ve been home no later than five. It’s coming on nine.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be home yet.” 

May nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. Yeah, I figured that much out myself, thanks.” 

Peter exhales heavily out his nose. 

“Look,” her tone softens and she takes a couple steps closer, “I didn’t mean to pick a fight with you. I’m sorry. You just worried me, bug. I know Mary’s never really given you many rules to follow. I’m sorry to inform you teenagers are meant to have boundaries. Yeah you’re allowed to test them, but have the courtesy to tell me you’re going to be out late. There’s no reason for you to lie, Pete.” 

She reaches for his hand and Peter squeezes it back. 

“Go sit down and I’ll bring you an ice pack.” 

Peter complies. 

A couple minutes later, Aunt May returns and sits next to him, passing off the bag of peas wrapped in a kitchen towel, and they sit in silence. 

“You can talk to me, you know?” she nudges his shoulder, eyeing him blatantly and he squirms at the look. “You shouldn’t bottle up everything.”

“I— I know that, Aunt May,” he whispers, picking at a hangnail on his right thumb. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind then, bug. Something’s been pestering you for a couple days now.” 

When Peter remains reticent, May tugs and maneuvers him around until his head is on her lap and she’s running her fingers through his curls. He relaxes, closing his non-injured eye. 

Eventually, he confesses, “Mom said I’m moving back two weekends before Halloween. May, that— that’s less than a month away! I don’t wanna leave.” he hides his face in her stomach. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” her fingers pause mid-hair stroke before she tugs him into a weird hug without moving their positions but Peter doesn’t care. He hugs her back just as tight.

He’s dreading moving out. 

 

* * *

 

Peter isn’t sure that he can breathe properly he’s so excited. First time Mister Stark mentioned Peter meeting his best friend, Peter perked up but told himself not to get caught up in the fantasy. Things didn’t always work out so no need to get his hopes up. But then his mentor made several more passing comments before telling Peter at their last session the week previous, he was gonna meet both Mister Stark’s fiancée and best friend. Peter’s initial spark of excitement snowballed outta control. Uncle Ben commented on it the entire weekend but Peter didn’t care to reel in his fanboying.

So when Mister Stark actually meets Peter in the main lobby and they ride up the private elevator together, Peter sucks in lips to keep from chattering the man’s ear off. But they don’t get off at the level Peter knows to be his mentor’s personal lab.

“No worries,” chuckles Mister Stark, “we’re just heading up to my suite. Pep avoids the lab at all costs.” 

A small huff of laughter escapes him and he eases back into the wall. 

As the doors open, quiet conversation ends, which Peter’s picked up their murmurations several floors ago once the initial rush of SI talks fades further away, and Peter watches as two figures stand from gray sectional and face the elevator. Peter knows their faces nearly as well as he’s known his mentor’s and yet these people are literal strangers. He freezes. A warm hand sits on the middle of his back and offers just enough pressure to encourage Peter to move forward. 

“Pep, Rhodey, I’d like to introduce you to my intern, Peter Parker.” his mentor’s voice commands space, keeps all attention on him, yet Peter knows that’s not his public appearance voice. He’s speaking to his friends not unlike how they talk during internship days, maybe with more warmth in his tone. “Pete, the official honor of meeting my lovely fiancée Pep and my platypus Rhodey.”

Pepper’s smile is infectious, his eyes on her because she’s bright and bubbly and the smattering of freckles across her nose makes him inexplicably happy. He barely looks away from her as Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes steps closer, outstretching his right hand. He’s not even officially met her and he’s awed! Yet a calmly commanding voice snaps him back to attention.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Peter. Tones can’t seem to shut up about you.” His mentor protests in the background but Peter pays him no mind as he sidesteps to accept the handshake. “I’m James Rhodes, but you can call me Jim or Rhodey, whichever you prefer.” 

His cheeks hurt from how wide his grin is right now; but Peter continues shaking Colonel Rhodes’s hand then glances left to make sure Mister Stark is still there and somehow Peter didn’t end up in some peculiar alternative dimension in the last twenty seconds. Mister Stark’s smile isn’t as big as Peter’s feels, quirked at the edges and cracking his lips, but the man definitely appears amused and he nudges his head in the direction of his best friend. 

“Thanks, Mister Rhodey, sir! It’s an honor! Wow.” Peter has to stop pumping the other man’s hand and end his rambling before it has a chance to go off. 

The three adults laughter mixes pleasantly, creating music in the otherwise oddly silent area, but Mister Stark’s arm slings around his shoulders, tugging him into a loose semi-hug, and Peter’s attention is tugged back to present.

“Mister Rhodey? Tones, this kid.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Ah, no need to apologize, Peter. But you don’t have to be so polite: just Rhodey is fine.” 

His mentor snorts out, “Good luck with that one. I’ve only barely gotten him to stop calling me Doctor Stark.” 

Rhodes cackles at that particular tidbit and Peter’s blush warms his face. 

Thankfully, Miss Potts’s eye roll in minimal, good humored if her wide grin is any indicator, and she ushers everyone in the living room to sit as it takes pressure off Peter.

"Please stop hogging Peter because I’d like to officially meet him when I’m not preoccupied chewing his mentor out for keeping him late.”

Next to him, his mentor sputters and his best friend slaps him on the back, but Peter’s too busy controlling his breathing as Pepper Potts bypasses his proffered hand and tugs Peter into the tightest hug he’s had in at least three months, _at least._  

“Wow, hi! You’re Pepper Potts,” he gushes into her strawberry locks, pulling back reluctantly. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you! Er— I mean, I’ve met you before but this is different. You’re so awesome, Miss Potts. Thank you so much for having me over!”

Miss Potts beams, “I am and you’re Peter Parker. It’s wonderful to meet you. Your transcript is impressive, I have to admit.”

Peter blinks. “You mean— you were the one who processed my information for the summer internship? Oh my god,” he breathes out super fast and he’s surprised any of his words were strung together coherently. 

“Indeed I was; my brain child equals my decision. Tony’s opinion on it was only a formality.”

“She picks the best, always.” comes his mentor’s two cents. “Here kiddo, sit down.” then he tugs lightly on Peter’s wrist until teenager is situated how the engineer wishes. “Pep’s been handpicking applicants longer than she’s been CEO.”

A huff draws Peter’s attention. Upon seeing Pepper’s quirked grin aimed at his mentor, his eyebrows furrow. A noise like that from his mom wasn’t usually playful.

“What’s he sucking up for this time?” wonders Rhodes. 

“I’m not—!”

“He’s not. He’s showing off.”

“Ah.”

It feels as if he’s at Wimbledon witnessing high-caliber matches for all the confusion lingering overtop him as three adults bicker good-naturedly. At least, he’s fairly positive everyone’s jokes are teasing and well intended. Mister Stark’s laugh pitches higher than Peter’s ever heard and it fills him with glee as he sits on the edge of the couch. It’s a different avenue from Uncle Ben’s teasing Aunt May and his mother’s sense of humor is morbid, if hilariously inappropriate when she’s not censoring herself. Light, carefree. Colonel Rhodes’s twinkling expression reminds the teenager of his best friend when they’re ribbing each other about implausible movie theories. Light, carefree, and jovial. Miss Potts is open in a way he’s not sure how to associate with his mental image of her. Light, carefree, jovial, and dazzling. Together their image coalesces like a collage and ties a ribbon of childish delight around his heart. 

“I’m a bad host,” drags Peter’s attention away from musing, “sorry for the nonsensical drivel, kiddo. You put me and Rhodey in a room together and I promise you, Pete, it’s like we never left MIT.”

“Speaking of MIT,” Colonel Rhodes segues the conversation, rearranging himself so can see Peter better at the same time his forearm pushes Mister Stark further into the sofa’s leather cushions, “I hear you’re fascinated by aerospace engineering?”

“ _Yes,_ oh my god!” slips out as Peter leans over his mentor before teetering back into his seat. “What made you decide aerospace or was it a desire to pursue a military career?”

“Mostly I wanted to fly and work on planes,” nods the other man, expression inviting Peter to keep asking questions, “though to be fair I knew by your age I wanted to go into the military and it was just a matter of taking my interests and finding best possible path.”

“So cool. Did you ever wanna work for NASA?”

“It crossed my mind, yeah.” Colonel Rhodes smiles. “Has it yours?”

Peter nods with gusto.

“What are your interests, Peter?” 

The teenager peers past Colonel Rhodes to answer Miss Potts, “Honestly? A little b it of everything.” here he chuckles twice under his breath nervously. “I really enjoy physics, engineering, and chemistry. I’m not bad at biology or robotics. I like creating and thinking critically. But honestly I have no idea what interests me enough to build a career,” he trails off by slumping slightly into the couch’s armrest. 

“Well,” Miss Potts shares a quick glance with their two other companions before finding Peter’s gaze and saying, “If you would like, then I’m sure you could shadow us to broaden your options.” 

Peter blinks. 

“I think you’ve broken him, Pep.” nudges Mister Stark, “Hello, earth to Pete?” 

“I mean— I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense.” 

“She’s right, Peter. I know you’re Tones’s intern, but he does more than sit around and tinker all day. He’s got meetings as head of R&D then of course as owner of SI.” 

Mister Stark shoots a faux glare down the line, “I do. But Pepper’s offer stands for all of us. Just say the word, kiddo, and we’ll set it up for you.”

“Can you do that?” The words tumble out of Peter’s mouth, directed at Pepper Potts, and he can’t do a thing once out in the open expect wince. “I mean, are you sure it’s okay for me to shadow you?”

“Of course it is, Peter. I’m Pepper Potts and I do whatever I want.” her smirk is sharp, but beneath it her veneer is playful and it makes her eyes brighten. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t serious.” 

Startled, Peter’s laughter escapes is rather high pitched. 

As the rest of the group smirks at Miss Potts’s confidence, Peter can understand why his mentor is marrying her. He thinks he’s half-in-love with her already. What an absolute icon.

“So, Tones,” Colonel Rhodes grabs everyone’s attention, “are you planning on hogging your intern for the rest of the afternoon or are you sharing him?”

“I can share,” sniffs his mentor. “What do you have in mind, platypus?” 

“Gotta convince the kid what kind of engineer is superior and I’m thinking it’s gonna be a conversation through dinner.”

“Oh, you’re on. Pete?”

“Um,” he flounders then grins, “yeah. Yeah, I’m game!”

 

* * *

 

Peter huffs and puffs dramatically as he dumps the final box on the floor. He’s eyeing the floor, contemplating about joining all the piles but realizes the room probably needs a good deep cleaning. Uncle Ben slaps his back. Startled, he glances up. All at once, noises rush back in like hearing a baseball whizz by and Peter hears his aunt murmuring with his mother in the other room first before every new sounds this side of Queens has to offer. Dizziness prods at his skull. Car alarms and babies wailing and so many televisions and electronics blaring. He blinks away the sensory input to focus on Ben.

“You want help unpacking?”

Glances around and taking inventory of the several boxes taking up his room with his new to him, mix-matched furniture, Peter bites on his lower lip. Something crawls up the back of his throat and lodges there. His chest is tight. Tentatively, he shakes his head in the negative. 

“You sure? I don’t mind,” Ben offers, bending down and tries to make eye contact. 

“‘M fine,” he whispers, avoiding the attempts.

Ben tips his chin up and Peter’s met with kind, bright eyes. “Hey.” When Peter stays silent his uncle’s sigh is soft, barely heard even with advanced hearing. "It’s not goodbye.”

 _It does,_ floats around inside his head, _it does feel like goodbye._ Moisture burns the corners of his eyes. He sniffs. 

“Petey,” cajoles his uncle. 

All at once he can’t keep up his facade and Peter throws himself at Ben and the older man barely falters, readjusting his weight to clutch his nephew. Peter hides his hiccuping sobs against Ben’s collarbone.

“Hey hey hey, none of that now. Peter, bud, listen to me,” a chin settles atop his head and Peter squeezes his eyes shut, as if that move could block out Ben’s words. “Are you listening?”

Slowly, when the stifled silence continues too long, Peter nods. Cold sweat sweeps down his back like that ice cube game Peter and Ned played all summer back in fourth grade. His throat constricts to the tune of his racing heart and Peter just wants to _hide._

Uncle Ben’s soft baritone rumbles through Peter’s ear, “You ever need me— I don’t care what time it is or where you’re at— you call me. Okay? I am always gonna be here for you, bud. Just ‘cause you’re no longer living with me and May doesn’t mean we love you any less. If you need me, then I’m gonna be there. I gotta get my fill of quality nephew time, don’t I?” 

He can’t answer. 

Distracted as he is with calming his sobs, Peter doesn’t notice Aunt May enter the room until she clears her throat. 

He unlatches from his uncle, small relief soothing him when he doesn’t unnecessarily stick, and wipes his eyes furiously. He tries to greet her but all comes out are croaks so Peter gives up on being polite. 

“You ready to go?” 

Glances up quickly, Peter eyes his aunt’s petite form angled at her husband and holding out her hand. Ben takes it, lacing their fingers, and Peter can’t look away from the small action. He’s so focused, in fact, that he misses Ben’s agreement and startles harshly when a hand cups his shoulder. 

“Need to stock up on my Petey hugs or my quota’s gonna tank.”

“And you know how grumpy he gets without his hugs,” Aunt May quips behind her husband, her smile hidden from Peter but it’s etched wide in his head. “Then you can bring it on over to me and I can smother you.”

A laugh gets lost behind his voice box but he shuffles forward, nosing his way underneath his uncle’s chin and fighting off the urge to childishly stick to him so he can’t ever leave. Peter loops his arms around Ben’s ribs and sinks into the detective as he’s wrapped up securely. 

“Love you, monster.”

“Love you, too, Uncle Ben.” 

Ben passes Peter off to May and his aunt’s embrace isn’t any less encompassing and fierce. They’ve never made him feel unloved; have always surrounded him in their love despite it all. Perhaps because of it, Peter hasn’t figured it out. May’s lips press at his temple, lingering. 

“Hey,” she tips his chin until her mischievous brown eyes find him, “guess what?” 

He quirks his eyebrows. 

“No, no!” she laughs, “I said _guess what?_ You’re supposed to answer me.” 

“What,” he breathes out, lips quirking upward ever-so-slightly. 

“I larb you, bug.” 

“Did you— oh man, did you just make a pun?”

“Got to hear your laugh, didn’t I? No need to tell me, I know how clever I am.” 

Uncle Ben’s laugh is soft, though genuine, and Peter’s achy body wants to throw himself into a group hug and walk out the door with them. As his uncle wraps up his aunt in a side hug, Peter can’t keep the thoughts at bay any longer because _his safety net is about to walk out that door_ and he trembles. He hasn’t even spent the night once with his mother since before her sentence to rehab and now he’s meant to live with her again full time? 

“We’ll talk to you later, okay Pete?” 

With a blink and forced smile Peter replies, “Sounds good.” 

Once they are gone and the front door latches shut, Peter falls to the ground. 

Too many new noises like cars and heartbeats and typical New Yorkers yelling and too many new scents pester at him and his heart won’t stop racing and the noises of his mother out in the living room does little to calm him down. A weight settles on his chest, chilling and festering, and Peter rubs at it absentmindedly. He hunches his shoulders until he folds over his crossed legs and tries breathing. 

“Come on Peter,” he mouths his new litany. “Come on Peter. Come on Peter. Get it together. C’mon.” 

A few more breaths later and Peter stands up to begin unpacking. It won’t take long, he realizes with a new survey around the sparsely furnished bedroom and his handful of boxes. He’s got a small three drawer dresser and an even smaller closest for his clothes along with a freshly spray painted black iron-framed twin bed. He’s glad to know his mother had something to occupy her time beforehand. He’s gonna need a desk for schoolwork, he decides as he places his backpack on top of the unmade mattress. Good thing he’s got a knack for finding stuff. Maybe if his mother didn’t use up all the spray paint then Peter can use it for any future desk he may come across. 

Thirty minutes pass and Peter’s finished. Around the same time his mother pokes her head into his bedroom before she rests against the wooden frame. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.” 

“I’m getting ready to start dinner. Would you like to help? We’re gonna have meatloaf, if that’s okay?” 

His stomach cramps. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Um, do you have sheets for— for the bed? I couldn’t find any.” 

“I didn’t bring them in? Huh. Okay, yeah I got a pair for you last week. They must still be in my bedroom so let me go and grab them.” 

She disappears. 

He stays rooted to his spot before the twin bed. 

His mother enters again, unfolding navy sheets as she goes, before starting to make up the bed. He watches her without comment as she works methodically, nearly military precision in her movements. 

“After dinner, would you like to go pick out a comforter?” 

Peter blinks, “What?” 

As she finishes the fitted sheet she immediately begins on the top sheet, saying, “I didn’t pick one out for you. And, y’know, we lost a lot of our stuff at the last place.” she glances up at him and he nods. “Your bed stuff didn’t make it, obviously, and I know how much you’ve always liked picking out your own things. Is that alright?” 

“Yeah,” comes out, “yeah, sure, we can do that, if that’s what you wanna do.” 

He doesn’t realize he’s calmed down during their conversation until he sees his mother’s smile, her cheeks crinkling and eyes squinting. He can’t help mirroring her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please leave comments or kudos, if you are so inclined <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many apologies for the lengthy time between posts. endgame killed me dead. actually, this is my ghost sharing now. traumatic, i know. also really sorry this is on the shorter side, but I promise everything gonna pick up from here on out. massive thanks for all the love I keep getting from this piece. <3

Second Friday in October finds Peter without any after school activities because Mister Stark had an emergency SI meeting. Peter had gotten the text around lunchtime. His mentor explains it’ll most likely run for the remainder of the day. He’s bummed, but understands. Generally, his mentor prioritizes their internship days and tries not to reschedule on Peter. Today is only the second time it’s happened. He gets it, but doesn’t like it. Doesn’t have to like it. Petulant, most definitely, but Peter rarely admits to his inner childish urges. Plus, now it means he’s gotta go home.

Queens, at least the new side in Elmhurst he lives in at any rate, is rowdy and his body thrums like crackling static electricity one could swear is alive, hissing and vibrating. As if Queens’s cacophony equals headphones blasting Peter’s favorite rock bands and his ears will bleed out their displeasure some distant day in the future if he keeps up the pattern. It prods at his senses but Peter’s in control today. He ignores it. His headphones are in but no tunes croon. 

Once he enters 3C, he shrugs off his backpack and yelps.

“Mom!”

“Sorry, hon; I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Peter blinks at his mother’s figure in the kitchen, hip propped against the counter, and a small, genuine smile on her painted lips.

“You’re home early for a Friday afternoon. What happened?”

He takes a moment to process and search for words, shuffling away from the front door and goes to sit at the table off to his mother’s right. “Umm, well, Mister Stark had an emergency meeting and text me.” 

He doesn’t see it because he’s fiddling with a hangnail, but Peter feels his mother’s eye-roll. “Rather rude of him.”

“Not really. He gave me a heads-up.” he pauses. “Aren’t you home early?”

His mother hums, “Yeah, my shift got jostled around. I have a shift tomorrow instead.”

“Ah.”

Their silence isn’t comfortable, but not awkward. If Peter had to describe it, he’d call it acclimating. And it’s fine; fine up until he compares it to the companionable silence at his uncle and aunt’s apartment; or with the silence that cloaks him and Ned while they’re studying or building Lego sets where concentration is key; or even the silence of Mister Stark’s lab, machines and his robots whirring, and their own individual tools clanking or grinding. It’s not bad, Peter decides at last, just different and new.

“We can go out for dinner, if you’d like?”

Peter’s neck pops from looking up, “You sure?”

“Positive,” her smile shows off her teeth, lips thinning. “In Astoria?”

His brows furrow yet he shrugs. “I’m game.”

“Go freshen up and we’ll leave in less than an hour. We can make an evening of it.”

“Okay.”

He gathers his bag and shuffles inside his bedroom, tossing first the bag then his jacket. His room is still clean. Tidy with lack of possessions. And he did laundry last night since he ran out of socks. He supposes he should visit the bathroom but he’s already on the bed. He’ll wait. 

He texts Ned for over half an hour, not realizing it’s been so long. 

“Peter, are you ready?”

“Uh, give me five minutes.”

He slips his shoes back on, tugs off his sweater for a hoodie, and stumbles inside the bathroom.

“Let’s roll.”

And out the door they go.

Peter trails a step behind his mother, close enough he could reach out and latch onto her jacket if he feels they might be separated. Traffic during this time of day gives him anxiety now (one of many culprits responsible, but what can he do?) so he stays a step behind all the way to the subway station. The clouds hide the sun and the wind causes him to shiver fairly consistently.

“I wasn’t made for cold weather,” he murmurs once they scan their cards and push inside the security barriers.

A startled bark of laughter comes in front of him before his mother’s head cranes back to eye him. “Oh, yeah? Hon, it’s not even that cold out right now. What are you gonna do when the snow comes?”

“Cry and move to California.”

Mary snorts, facing forward, leading them toward their platform. “It’s not paradise out there, not like you’re fantasizing.”

“I’ll build a dome that withstands heat of forest fires.”

“Oh, will you?”

“Mmhmm! And if I can get the prices down, I’ll make them cost efficient so every house may have one. Easy.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Peter shrugs, unabashed. 

They parry back and forth until they’re standing on the subway train, in the middle like his mother prefers, and Peter naturally lets the conversation fizzle. His mom bumps his shoulder and sends him a soft grin. Momentarily it’s like looking at her through the lens of childhood, they could be anywhere in the world because Peter knows that expression. So he smiles back, fingers tangling on the bottom of her jacket without any thought. 

They decision on Greek food once they get off and head toward 23rd. Peter’s not a huge fan, but his mother’s spent the last few weeks catering to him; it’s a fair compromise. When they arrive, they don’t sit out on the patio, which he’s grateful and eventually his shivering stops some time after the waitress brings their drinks. 

“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” his mother prefaces, sliding her diet soda further away, “and it’ll last all day; but I was hoping we could hang out Sunday?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, “that’s fine. Did you have anything in mind?”

Suddenly his mother’s silence pulls Peter’s attention up and away from shredding the paper around his silverware. A blush stains Mary’s cheeks and her eyes are sheepish, he observes.

“I’m actually seeing this guy,” she murmurs, hazel eyes flickering back and forth between his face and somewhere indistinct behind him, “and I was hoping to introduce you two.”

Peter bites back a groan.

Mary laughs, soft yet amused, and Peter realizes he must have made a face. 

“He’s a good guy, cub.”

“Okay,” his voice cracks and he clears it several times uselessly. He’s surprised, is all; his childhood nickname isn’t used much these days and his mother’s voice sounds reverent. “Sure, okay. But it’s not gonna be all day, right?”

“No, don’t be silly.”

Their food arrives and Peter changes the topic.

 

* * *

 

Next morning flops in terms of coolness; not that Peter’s particularly cool himself. Still, his mother is long gone by the time Peter drags himself out of bed. Insomnia kept him up until after three, he heard his mother leave at six, and he spent the next four hours dozing intermittently. 

He’s starving but that’s nothing new. He makes a batch of pancakes for breakfast, with blueberries, and devours them. Not that he’s been examined post-spider bite, but he’s fairly certain his metabolism requires a calorie count five times higher than what he ingests. His hands shake a lot now. For one, he can’t get away with eating however much he pleases— major red flag and he likes that nobody besides Ned knows his secret identity. He’s so petrified of being caught out it’s a quarter of the reason he can’t sleep at night— and they can’t afford an enhanced metabolism. Queens is expensive, not as expensive as Manhattan, but a two-bedroom apartment on a single income is tight. Peter would literally eat his mother out of house and home. So he’s adapting toward feeling like the world will one day sharply shift and swallow him whole. Guess it’s apart of his growing up process?

After food he kills some time by working on a pre-Calc packet. Allows his thoughts to wander. Then he showers around one and it’s as he’s toweling off his hair that he spots his phone lighting up. 

“Hey, Ned, what’s up?” he answers, trying to to slip his shirt on singlehanded and without putting the phone on speaker. 

He drops the phone. 

“Dude!”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Still clumsy.”

Ned chuckles good-naturedly, “You got plans today?”

“Negative.”

“Can I come over and we can have a movie marathon? I’d offer for you to come here but Ari’s having a slumber party tonight and I want zero part of it.”

“Yeah, ‘course you can.” 

Ned arrives less than hour later later bearing Delmar’s sandwiches. 

“ _Star Trek_.”

“No way, it’s _Star Wars_. Superiority always wins.”

“Logic belongs to Spock therefore superiority demands we watch _Star Trek._ C’mon, Ned,” his voice turns whiny at the end, but he doesn’t bother hiding a small grin, “I like both but we always go with your pick.”

“Can’t believe my best friend’s a Trekkie,” mutters his friend as Ned throws himself down on the couch.

Peter takes his victory and slips his DVD into the janky player. Waits several beats to make sure the thing turns on because he just finished refurbishing it a couple days ago; an appearance of a logo sends Peter toward the sofa. Ned lifts a corner of his comforter, Peter slides inside, and they unwrap their food. 

“Wait— drinks. We don’t have drinks.” 

Peter shoots Ned what he hopes is a deadpan expression. “Dude.” He gestures at his now covered lower half.

Ned waves his sandwich as if saying _same_. 

They’re at a stalemate for all of ten seconds before Peter exhales, extra dramatically, tosses off his covers, sets down his half-unopened snack, and stomps into the kitchen. Behind him Ned sing-songs,

“You’re my fave!” 

Head inside the refrigerator, Peter grumbles, “I better be your only fave.” then pulls out two Gatorades. “If I throw this at you, what are the odds of you catching it.”

“Same kind of odds of me still being your friend if you do.”

“Ouch.”

“Your mom working tonight?”

Peter settles back down, “Yeah. Guess what kind of awkwardness I have to go through tomorrow?”

Ned side-eyes him, “Do I even wanna know?”

“Mom wants to introduce me to a new boyfriend.”

Ned fake gags. “On that note, I say let’s get lost in space and time, dude.”

“Think you could stay all day tomorrow too?”

“And live through that embarrassment as well? Hell no.”

“C’mon.”

“No.” 

“Please.”

“No, ‘cause you picked _Star Trek._ ”

“Hate you.” 

“Dude, you don’t have a mean bone in your body.” 

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve reliably been informed that I don’t have a heart.” 

At that, Ned snorts. Peter meets his best friend’s gaze and they share a smirk. 

“If we switch to _Star Wars_ will you stay?”

“…No.”

“We’ll start with the originals instead of the prequels.” 

“Next movie.” 

“You’re the best.”

 

* * *

 

Peter’s distracted. 

Actually, he’s been off his rhythm for the last few days but he’s powered through it. Started over the weekend after he met his mom’s new…beau or boyfriend or partner or whatever the hell older people call their significant others. André wasn’t bad, Peter admits, but he doesn’t understand why his mother thought it was a great idea to introduce them at this stage. An hour’s worth of tediousness, with Ned thankfully at his side, didn’t make the time pass any quicker but it took minuscule amounts of pressure off himself during Q-and-A. It’s been several years since his mother has had someone serious enough to bring home for Peter to meet and it doesn’t get any easier. Less confusing, sure. But boyfriends have equaled trouble in the past and Peter’s first inclination is to judge the current boyfriend based on his mother’s rotten-egg past ones. It’s whatever, though. Sunday afternoon sucked until his mother took pity on Peter and sent him off with Ned to the Leeds’ home. 

All the same, he can’t shake off the uneasiness. 

He is being consumed. School’s stressful and AcaDec is in full swing now. And Peter’s worrying about his mother. Nothing new. Yet he’s drowning under the pressure of juggling too many worries, too many anxieties. His time with Ben and May must have diminished his capacity of handling his once normal problems. His sensitivity is higher than Empire State Building and it’s integrity may as well rival a stupid pothole. Water treading may not be an option when it’s lapping at his chin.

As he’s leaving Midtown, he heads first for the wrong train towards Queens. Somehow his brain reroutes him and he’s off toward Stark Tower. He’s a puppet without a hand, flopping around aimlessly. 

Sits in silence on the subway, noises mingling together to caress him inside a dome. Peter can see all yet hears little. He knows he’s not in right headspace for lab-work today. Every fiber of his being demands he go home and hide under his covers. Yet he’s never canceled on his mentor. Nerves demand he follow his commitments through and he heads uptown. 

He is inside the lab as Mister Stark shoots a smile over his shoulder in Peter’s direction. 

“Hey, kid. Good day at school?” 

He thinks he replies. There isn’t a concerned face crowding him, demanding answers in a stern tone, so he assumes he passed the first test. (Mister Stark is difficult to discern; Peter cannot pinpoint his mentor’s microscopic expressions just yet, especially since they contradict at times. Not like his mother or his uncle and aunt.)

Nothing computes. 

It’s like staring at reflecting water while being submerged inside it. Or maybe breathing through a tight tube, deep breaths dragged out forcefully. Whatever he says doesn’t tip the mechanic off because Mister Stark allows Peter to pick up where they left off last week, piecing together a system to hold their artificial intelligence. Mister Stark isn’t hovering over his shoulder, breathing down his neck, voicing suggestions or humming his approval. A piece of him finds his mentor’s missing presence curious. Mentally shrugging it off, Peter gets to work. 

Mechanically his arms follow his brain’s wavelengths. He is inky sludge. His eyes see his movements, reaching and discarding a keychain of hex keys, left hand moving into semi-focus. He shouldn’t be able to move fluidly. Now he’s under chlorine-filled water. Stings bring tears to his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his head he recalls opening his eyes beneath the bubbles of a hotel hot tub at eight years old. His mother’s yells are lost to the jets beneath gushing water. 

He reaches for two wires. Fingers fiddling and fiddling and fiddling, wondering why he needs them but he’s operating on full autopilot, it seems, so Peter sees as his hands tug wires closer together. Actions stifled like trudging through mud or lava or even this sludge he’s buried inside. 

“FRI, kill the power. Cut the power, FRIDAY!”

On cue, Mister Stark’s lab is engulfed in darkness and Peter’s dragged up to the surface, startling, shaking off gunk but it lingers, festers, sticks to his mind like silly-putty.

Blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting right away but his brain is a step behind. He cranes his neck and finds his mentor’s befuddled brown eyes. 

Mister Stark inhales, “Are you okay?”

He nods. 

His mentor wipes a hand down his face. Peter observes. Mister Stark stalks closer and grasps Peter’s shoulders, their gazes locking and his mentor’s eyes are too sharp, demand attention, and Peter can’t look away. 

Knee-jerk reaction screams _stay still!_ while his mind circles _run run run._

“What was that? Hmm? Pete, you damn near shocked yourself. Tell me what’s going on?”

“I can— I don’t know.”

“Kiddo, I need you sharp in here. Okay? Standard procedure _always_ inside a lab, mine isn’t excluded. You could have seriously hurt yourself, Peter. What if I wasn’t around?”

“I know. I know I could have.” _But I didn’t, you caught me,_ he wants to finish, _you were there._

“Did you accidentally grab those wires?”

He shrugs. 

Tony huffs, “Kid. Okay, we’re not playing twenty questions. Tell me what’s going on, where your mind’s at.”

His jaw opens and closes, words stuffed on the back of his tongue, but his mouth is dry. 

Mister Stark stares him down, gaze firm and unyielding. 

They stand in silence for a century, at least. Peter can’t tell time. He’s downloading sensory input at quarter-capacity; can’t think, can’t talk, can’t explain. Maybe he wants to confess all to his mentor; but why would Iron Man want to hear poor Peter Parker’s thoughts?

Eventually he shrugs again. 

“I need a verbal answer, Peter.”

Slowly, he says, “I’m not sure, sir.”

A clipped nod, “Fine. We’re calling it a day. Come back with a clear head at the end of the week. Until then, please take care, Peter.”

And Mister Stark walks away. 

Stunned, Peter clears his station and gathers his belongings. 

Eyes sting. Burn, more like, as if Peter stands inside a burning building and is being pelted by a firehose. Smoke and water warring, mist marrying smoke, and Peter’s a guileless bystander. Blinks once and he’s outside the immaculate tower. Another and he’s on the subway, headed home. Third time is supposedly the charm because now Peter is bundled up inside his comforter, nose brushing against cotton and it scrunches like a sneeze is imminent, and he wants to be buried alive. Please please please please. 

Peter isn’t strong enough to be yelled at, he never has been, and all he wants to do is _cry._ Little kids cry to their parents but Peter knows he can’t cry to his mother about this. 

Wildly, he reaches for his cell buried inside the front pocket of his hoodie, fumbling to handle it properly and turn it on. He presses call and waits and waits and waits and waits, dreading the voicemail that’s going to drown him further. 

“Pete?”

“Ben,” he heaves. “I messed up!”

“Hey, breathe for me,” his uncle instructs, levelheaded, “I can’t understand you right now.” 

Peter can’t breathe, can’t function, can’t be a simple human being, he is all vibrations and chattering teeth. “Please.”

“Do you need me to come over?”

He shakes his head. 

“Bud, I need you to answer me.”

He screwed up. Major. Peter squeezes his eyes and gnaws on his pointer finger’s knuckle. 

“Peter Benjamin, I need an answer now before I’m coming over, sirens blaring.”

“I—I,” he inhales, rattling his chest, and he bites down on the non-fleshy part of his hand, and yanks it away, “I messed up. Today. At lab.”

A lengthy exhales greets Peter’s eardrum, “Okay. Alright. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

But where does Peter start?

“Did Doctor Stark fire you?”

“No!” he chokes out. 

“Then you mustn’t have screwed up too bad. Tell me what’s bothering you, Pete.”

So he attempts to explain the murky water making a home inside of himself. He stumbles and starts and stutters and sags in relief when the main issue is out in the open. Ben listens, silent but there. He never interrupts Peter when he’s unloading. Waits patiently for him to finish and then waits a while longer just to be sure Peter’s got it out of his system entirely. 

“I think you need to explain to him what’s going on,” Uncle Ben replies, tone soft but resolve blankets it. “If not the entire truth, then explain to him you were having a bad day.”

Peter sighs. “He doesn’t care what’s going on in my life.” 

“Bullshit.”

His face scrunches up.

Ben reads his confusion fluidly over the phone as if they sit across from each other. “You know that’s not true, Peter. Why would your mentor ask what’s wrong if he didn’t care?”

“Because,” he drawls, “he doesn’t want me to fuck up his lab?”

“Mouth.”

Peter lifts his left shoulder. “S’true.”

“It isn’t, though.” Ben breathes out and Peter can hear the irritation weaving like ivy out his throat. “Adults have the tendency to sound angry when they’re scared, bud. And I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure you’re the youngest person Doctor Stark is consistently in contact with on a weekly basis.”

Peter doesn’t like that thought. Can’t pin down why, precisely, but it rubs the wrong way. 

“Hey, I’ve gotta get back. Are you okay or do you need me for a few more minutes?”

“Go. It’s fine.”

“I’ll call or text later, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Ben.”

“You’re welcome, bud.”

He drops his phone onto his mattress and hides under the covers, long after his own humidity heats his face. 

Anxiety won’t allow him to eat, though his stomach spasms and cramps intermittently. So he skips dinner. Tries to make up for it by eating a couple handfuls of salt and vinegar chips. All of it tastes of soot on his tongue and Peter quits. 

He relocates to the sofa, waiting for his mother to come home. He isn’t planning on sharing his screw up; he wants company. A familiar face. Maybe someone to massage his aching head.

He falls asleep.


	6. Chapter Six

Peter suspects his mother is using again.

All he had were his hunches, but his intuition rarely fails him and he can’t articulate it without solid evidence. Yet he’d say, currently, there is a seventy percent chance of Mary using or drinking again. She hasn’t come home high or drunk. He has yet to find bottles where they shouldn’t be and Mary’s never been much of a drinker. (He’s checked her room, too, though guilt chased him out after the initial sweep and he’s not checked a second time.) She’s acting... odd. Off-beat, not like she’s hiding a secret but as if she’s overcompensating... something. 

It irks Peter. He likes solving mysteries. 

...Yet at the same time he doesn’t want it to be true. 

At the back of his mind he hears Uncle Ben’s words and Peter shoves them inside a box, triple locks it, and pushes it away. He can worry over _that_ later. Much, much later.

Tonight he’s bailed on Ned. They were meant to have a sleepover this weekend at his house, a trade off, but Peter claimed an upset stomach and remorse still hasn’t found him. Mary claimed a late evening of work and then a date with André. She isn’t expecting Peter at home. Part of him wonders how late she’ll come home and while he’s not fond of the idea of her dragging in her boyfriend, his curiosity is more pressing. 

Will she come home wasted?

He’s used to it. Intuition demands he live by past experiences and Mary used to come home under the influence frequently before the spring debacle. A tiny part reminds Peter his mother has flourished in her recovery and if the last three weeks aren’t enough evidence of a change, he doesn’t know what counts. 

Change isn’t always permanent. 

He wakes up after midnight, astrophysics article disheveled across his chest and feet, no doubt disturbed as he wakes up in the overstuffed chair in the front room. All the lights are on and Peter blinks several times, eyes refusing to adjust. 

Front door is still locked. No keys beside Peter’s on the wall hook; missing work shoes next to his battered Converse; his mother isn’t home yet. 

“Should wait up,” he mumbles, rubbing fists into his eyes, spotty stars lining his vision. 

Sleep croons and Peter yearns to answer its call. Not before locking himself inside his bedroom and slipping on his webshooters. Paranoia is becoming a regular acquaintance. 

Insomnia sinks its claws inside his wandering brain, tantalizing him with vivid fears and blurry beaches. Sleep eludes him. 

Raised voices startle him awake. Disoriented, Peter attempts sliding out of bed; too bad the quilt is tangled with his legs and he tumbles out instead. Worry pricks first behind his neck then unfurls inside his belly. _He locked up, didn’t he? Has someone broken into his apartment?_

As he untangles the quilt, shoving it hastily back onto his twin bed, Peter then rearranges his webshooters, tucking them within the oversized hoodie’s red fabric. 

The voices continue bickering. White noise or anxiety or some combination keeps Peter from making out any coherency. He spots his phone and jabs down on the home button, reading 8:17 across a spider crack, and he groans.

“Shit,” falls from the teen’s lips. No wonder it’s hell waking up; last time Peter checked the clock it was after 4:30. “Damn it.” 

He rubs his face with both palms. 

A particular voice pitches enough for Peter to notice, forcing him stumbling across the room and toward his door, unlocking it with some difficulties. 

“Mom?” he calls out, tripping over his twisted legs once in the hallway. 

“Oh God,” comes his mother’s murmur, a familiar note of irritation laced with frustration. 

Peter propels himself out into the semi-open living space, eyes immediately finding his mother’s and blinks several times. Eventually his brain tells him she’s fine and the danger shiver never originates at his neck, so Peter glances toward the second person, under the assumption everyone is safe and it isn’t a home invasion that woke up him. 

“Mister Stark?”

“Hey, bud.” his mentor’s voice is hoarse and he looks the way Peter feels: rumpled. 

Peter opens his mouth to question why his idol is at his place so early on a Saturday. Instead his mother redirects him. 

“What are you doing home?”

“Ned got sick so I came home.” 

Skepticism paints his mother’s features as he steals a glance at her. Mary raises her brows and crosses her arms. He knows he’s been caught lying. 

“Go put clothes on.”

“What?”

“Go and put some real fucking clothes on, Peter, then come back out. I’m not asking again.” 

Peter’s been dismissed. As he spins on his heel he catches a peculiar expression from his mentor; as if he’d been pinched or someone had stolen and wrecked his Iron Man armor. At his mother’s throat clearing, he scurries back down the hallway. 

It’s not until he’s taking off his sleep shirt that Peter notices what exactly he’s wearing: an Iron Man hoodie and lounge pants. At least the Captain America shirt was hidden! 

“Ohmygod!” he whines, shoving off the remainder of his pajamas quickly. 

Throws on jeans and a long sleeved black shirt rather quickly, tugging the material out of his forever-in-the-way webshooters, Peter paces outside his room once more. 

His mother and Mister Stark sit in tense, silent stalemate. 

“Mom? Mister Stark? What— what’s going on? Am I in trouble? Is this about the internship?” he verbalizes his fear, hovering behind the loveseat, eyes flitting between both adults on the sofa and armchair. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Come sit down.”

“Mom, you said it was okay!”

“Peter, _please_ come sit down.”

“But Mom—“

“Now, Peter!”

Jaw clicks shut, Peter plops down heavily on the closest cushion, eyes trained on the floor. He’s gonna cry. If he peers up and reads his mother’s expression, then he’s gonna lose it and whatever is going on he refuses to cry in front of the man who has done so much for Peter in such a short amount of time. 

“We need to talk.” 

“Mom I don’t wanna lose the internship. It’s not fair!”

“Peter,” her voice demands attention and his eyes flick toward her, hazel eyes hard, “I am trying to explain what’s going on. I need you to stop talking for five minutes, okay?”

He nods, face and ears heating up, properly chastised. 

Finally, his mentor speaks up, “Hey kiddo, it’s okay. It’s not about the internship.”

“What’s going on?” Peter directs towards the chair, eyes not aimed any higher than the bottom of furniture, tightness clawing at his throat and anxiety making his upper body shake. 

“Last night I found out from Mary—”

“Tony, don’t—” his mother’s tone of voice is one she uses when Peter’s crossed lines. 

His mentor isn’t fazed. “I am _not_ keeping this from him like you have, Mary.” 

“What’s going on?” Peter presses, sitting up, trying to force eye contact with either adult. 

His mother and mentor are locked in a furious gaze. 

“Mom?”

Mary gives her full attention to him, face carefully blank. “You know how you’re always asking about your father?”

“Mom!” hisses Peter, cutting over toward their guest. 

She gestures at Mister Stark. 

“Huh?”

“Mary—”

“Meet your father, Peter!”

His world shifts. It must spin off axis, despite evidence of the contrary; Peter’s being dramatic. 

“Wh— what? Don’t— Mom, don’t lie to me about—” 

Mary huffs, “Don’t I wish I’m lying.” 

“Pete—”

“I’m so sorry, Mister Stark!” his pivots on the loveseat, pleading silently with the engineer in the armchair. “I don’t know what she’s—”

“I didn’t know.” he is cut off and next moment Mister Stark is kneeling before him, his hands hovering above Peter’s kneecaps. “Peter, I swear to you I did not know.”

Peter’s lower lip quivers. “You— you didn’t know? It’s— it’s true? What she’s saying is true?”

The room swells in temperature, he’s sure of it. His hearing tunnels and Peter’s entire focus zeroes in on Tony Stark kneeling before him, dark brown eyes rimmed red. It can’t be right. Ashton Kutcher is making a comeback, he’s been punk’d, and Tony Stark will have a great laugh at the expense of poor Peter Parker. 

“Breathe, bud.”

Peter jerks his head left and right, “Can’t!” 

Mister Stark places his left hand on a knee and without hesitance grasps Peter’s with his free one, both hands going to the older man’s chest. Stops on his heart. 

“Breathe with me.”

Behind them his mother snorts. 

“Shut up, Mary,” snarls Mister Stark. 

Peter blinks and blinks and blinks. 

Mister Stark is his father? In what universe could Peter ever be the biological child of his childhood idol and superhero? Tony Stark is confident and levelheaded. A certifiable genius and the best engineer in his fields. Peter’s his opposite. It has to be wrong. A mistake. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” his mentor keeps apologizing, tone pitched low and reverent, reaching up and wiping a tear off his cheek Peter didn’t know he shed. “God, _Peter_.”

He doesn’t wanna look away. If he looks away or blinks or breathes funny all of this will... disappear. He can’t believe it yet he doesn’t want it to go away. Because Mister Stark is awkward about personal space and he’s given Peter a handful of half-hugs since they’ve known each other. He recalls Mister Rhodey telling Peter not to take it personally because Mister Stark can still act that way with him. Peter can hand his mentor things without him freaking out. He thinks they have grown closer.

He isn’t special, though. 

“He’s mine.”

He jerks toward his mother, brow furrowing, words held captive in his throat. 

“I told you,” Mister Stark doesn’t spare a glance at Peter’s mother, “I’m not letting this go. I’ll be suing for joint custody.” 

“I made the decision to keep him away from you. I don’t want him in the spotlight.”

“Neither do I. Unfortunately I don’t have control over the media. I’ll keep it contained; he’s a minor.”

“As if that’ll stop them.”

Mister Stark’s lower jaw locks. “It’s not going to stop me, Mary. You’ve kept my son from me for fifteen goddamn years!”

“He isn’t going anywhere with you.” 

“Cut the bullshit, Mary. Let me take him somewhere quiet and explain what’s going on.” Mister Stark shifts, his torso twisting in a way to face the stubborn woman across the room, and he matches her expression with a fierce glare of his own. “You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit, Tony.” she replies, tone dipping low. “He’s staying here with me. You can stay and talk to him, but he’s not leaving my apartment.” 

“Mary—”

Peter’s mother pushes off the wall she’d been leaning on, arms remaining crossed as she grounds out, “You can’t have him, Tony.”

And she turns around, striding toward her bedroom where the door latches shut with a firm _click._

Peter flinches. 

Thoughts race around his brain like erratic and derailed locomotives, full-steam ahead, and he’s bracing for impact. Nothing makes any sense. Weight of the webshooters keeps him grounded. His heartbeat elevates and he’s increasingly aware of it at his temples and throat. Yet as Peter attempts processing his world’s latest revelation, it screeches to a halt. _Mom. Mister Stark. Dad? Wrongwrongwrongwrong._  

“Pete.” 

He bites down on his lower lip, forcing out in a whisper, “I— I’m sure she’s wrong. Why would you believe her? I’m so sorry she’s lied to you, Mister Stark. I swear to you I knew nothing about it! She— she has the tendency to lie.” 

“She’s not lying, kiddo.” Mister Stark’s hands land back on Peter’s knees and the world eases back into something semi-manageable. “And I wish I could have told you— better. Not like— well. She didn’t—” the older man huffs an annoyed exhale. 

Quietly, he admits, “I’m used to it.” 

“You shouldn’t have to be.” 

Peter shrugs. 

Mister Stark’s stare is intense, not necessarily uncomfortable yet Peter hates having people’s undivided attention directed so completely on himself, and Peter struggles maintaining it. His flit away, over his shoulder or his forehead or even his nose. What did Peter ever do to deserve someone’s compassion? 

If Peter’s struggling to process, then he can’t imagine how Mister Stark must be handling the news. 

“Are… you okay?”

A head tilt and curiosity clouds brown eyes pierce him. It hits Peter that they share their eye color. “I will be.” comes the eventual murmuration. “How about you? Do you have any questions?” 

He does, but it can’t be that easy to talk about it… can it? 

“You know you can always come to me about anything, Peter.” 

Apparently it can be. 

Silently he watches as the other man shifts around, his hands tightening then loosening on his knees, before he stands and drags the coffee table over so he can perch on it, returning to his position in front of Peter. 

“Think it would be easier if I start talking first?” 

He shrugs and nods, indecisive.  

Thankfully, Mister Stark takes initiative and begins talking. 

“Your mother set up a meeting with me last night.” he begins softly. “Aside from the initial one I had with Pepper and her a few weeks ago about the internship, I hadn’t heard from her. Don’t wanna admit that I was blindsided by it…,” he trails off with a hand wave. 

“Did you believe her?” his question breaks the silence. 

And Mister Stark winces, saying more than words ever will. 

A frown distorts his features and he turns away. 

“Hey,” his chin is tilted up and fingers curl as if they want to hold on but Mister Stark releases Peter once he meets his mentor’s eyes. “Please understand that I wasn’t expecting that conversation last night. And know it— Pete, I wasn’t the best of men fifteen, twenty years ago. Okay? Saying I was wild’s a bit of an understatement. There’s been… plenty of paternity accusations.”

“You don’t have to tell me all this,” he interjects, matching his tone. 

“I do.” he stresses. “You deserve my honesty.” 

A complete one-eighty in comparison to his mother. Majority of the adults in his life, come to think of it. Peter stays silent. 

“So I may have lost my cool last night. There was no hitting or throwing of things, but there was a lot of shouting. But your mother came prepared. I had a two week fling with your mother Christmas of 2000. I’ll spare you the gory details on that front but Mary knew I’d need concrete proof and it’s pretty easy testing genetics inside your own lab.” 

His brows fly up his forehead: they’d done a DNA test? His stomach cramps and he hunches forward, fighting the urge to cradle it. 

“So it’s— true? I’m not dreaming this entire morning debacle up?” 

Mister Stark snorts, shaking his head. “No, you aren’t dreaming. Very much true and verified by FRIDAY and Pepper.” 

“Miss Potts knows?!”

“Yes,” he drags out, “she _is_ my fiancée.” 

Peter supposes it makes it harder to cover up now. Not impossible, but Peter can’t be the reason New York’s power couple splits up. 

“What’s the big deal about Pep knowing?” 

“Well,” he sputters, “it’ll make the cover up more of an issue.” 

“Excuse me? A cover up. Of what, exactly?” 

“Me! You can’t seriously want joint custody of your intern turned biological son.” 

“I am as serious as a heart attack, kiddo. And I’m sorry you feel like I’d sweep you under the rug. I had thought we knew each other better than that at this point.” 

Peter glares half-heartedly at the verbiage because he knows about Tony Stark’s bad heart post-Afghanistan. Arc reactor or no, Peter’s heard Miss Potts talk about it at least three times. As the words process guilt licks up his spine. “I’m sorry,” he says, hiding away from the scrutiny. “I don’t—”

“Hush,” he’s shushed. “It’s alright, Peter.”

Will it? How can anything ever be alright again? Everything is changing.

So of course instead of asking important questions the next one out his mouth makes him appear like a dumbass. 

“What about the internship?”

Mister Stark leans forward, expression open and sincere. “You can visit me whenever you want. Okay? Come by the lab and we’ll hang out like we’ve been doing. Nothing has to change on that front, Pete.”

“I don’t want anything to change.” he admits. 

“I’m sorry that’s how you feel; but things are always going to be changing.” 

A door clicks open and Peter hears his mother shuffling around before she appears. Her heart rate hadn’t drawn his attention since her sudden departure and now the fast thrumming concerns him. His neck cranes to spot her. 

“You need to go, Tony.” 

Mister Stark sighs quietly. Then, he pats Peter’s knee and stands. “You’ll hear from my lawyers this afternoon.” 

“Door.” his mother points right. 

Peter looks up at Mister Stark, watching a myriad of microscopic emotions pass by like a shooting star, watching him stare at his mother behind Peter without succumbing to any riotous feeling he’d have the right to express. So it’s in slow motion Peter sees his mentor peer down at him, more intense emotions passing through those familiar eyes, before the man appears to make a decision and Peter’s face is cupped. Mister Stark presses a kiss to his temple, directly below his hairline, and steps back. 

“I’ll talk to you later, okay? You need me, call.”

Then he’s gone. 

Peter listens as his mentor’s footsteps pause outside their door then recede. Further away Mister Stark goes, the more noises infiltrates Peter’s senses. Neighbor’s televisions and arguments and a smoke detector chirping three floors down. All of it assaults him at once and he clenches shut his eyes. 

Fury floats in his belly, firm and acidic. 

Peter shakes. 

“We need to talk.” 

“…No.” 

“Peter—”

He shoves himself up to stand, spinning around to glare at his mother. “I don’t even want to talk to you right now. I’m so— I’m so angry!” 

And he does something he doesn’t generally do: Peter storms off to his room and hides in there before he’s been dismissed. 

Locks the door for good measure. 

Tears fall as soon as he’s alone. Breaths come choppy, like disgruntled waves at nighttime on a deserted beach. Peter lost control and he’s alone and adrift. 

Petrified. 

What does this mean for him? 

He burrows back into his rumpled bed, has a fight with the quilt, then plans on never resurfacing once it’s over his head. Hope everything will just… disappear. 

Stale air chases him out and Peter fumbles for his phone. 

“Ben,” he hiccups once there is connection. 

“Pete? Hey, what’s wrong?” 

Without preamble Peter asks, “Did you know?” 

It’s a stupid way to begin the conversation, he knows, but it doesn’t stop it. 

“Know what? Are you alright; need me to come and get you?” 

“Can you?” he sniffles, hiding his face inside his elbow. 

“On route now; twenty minutes out.” his uncle reassures. “So now you can tell me what’s bothering you and fill me in on what I may or may not know.” 

“Did you know who is my biological father?”

Ben sighs. “No. Mary never told me and neither did Richard.” 

Peter sucks in a breath, listening to easy breathing on the other line, trying to match it. 

“Did she tell you?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“And… do you know him? Is that why you’re upset?” 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, I know ‘em.” 

“You wanna tell me now or later?”

It’s such a cruel joke that Peter doesn’t want to say; certain that if he tells Uncle Ben someone will come and tell Peter he’s been sorely mistaken. As if he’s about to commit a crime and Ben ought to arrest Peter instead of reassure him. Because why would Peter need comfort after finding out his lifelong idol is his father? 

“Pete.” 

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t—”

“It’s Mister Stark.” 

The other line goes quiet; but Peter’s enhancements pick up on increased breathing and his uncle’s partner. Peter hadn’t realized that Ben would be working and worry chases guilt. He’s forever in the way, stirring up trouble, and asking for help when he should be able to handle things on his own. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Peter asks, not computing the easy acceptance. 

“Yep. Okay, monster. We can handle this. It’s gonna be okay. Does he know?”

He nods, “Yeah. Mom— I guess Mom told him last night and I found out not too long ago.” Peter pauses then adds, “He was here. At the apartment, I mean.”

“He seem okay?”

“I… I guess so? I mean he told Mom he’s suing for joint custody.” 

“Good.” 

“Huh? Why’s it a good thing?” 

“‘Cause it means he’s a good man, Pete. It’s not right that your mother kept that secret all these years; he’s missed out on a great kid growing up.” 

 _Is he though?_ Peter wonders. 

“I’m two blocks out. Come meet us outside, we’ll pick up sandwiches, and head back to the precinct, cool?”

“Won’t you get in trouble if I hang out there?” he bites his lips, waffling on the idea of leaning on a consistent adult in his life as everything goes to shit around him. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

Ben scoffs, “Negative, little monster. I’ll be the one in trouble only if everyone knows I didn’t bring you in to say hi. Now get moving.”

Peter hangs up. 

He rolls off the bed and lands on his back. Quickly he disengages the webshooters and shoves them behind a box under his bed. Finds his shoes and slips them on. His jacket is hung up by the front door, so Peter decides he may as well suck up his anxiety and grab it. Huffs several breaths then decides it’s now or never and yanks open his door. 

He hadn’t paid attention but his mother has the television on and Peter hopes that she’ll be distracted enough by it she won’t notice him leaving. 

“Peter.” 

No such luck. 

He can be stubborn. He refuses to answer. 

Instead he heads toward the front closet and pulls out his jacket. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Out.” 

“With?”

Peter pauses, contemplating his answer. 

“Peter, I need an answer.” 

“Ben. I’m going out with Ben. He’s downstairs.” 

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” 

Affronted, Peter spins around and glares at her as she stares back at him from the sofa. “No!” 

“Because I don’t want you seeing him yet.”

Peter wants to tell her she can’t tell him who he can and cannot see. Not wanting to argue with her and hold up Ben, Peter replies, “I’ll see you later.”

He heads out the door, closing it with more force than necessary. 

He trots down three flights of stairs and when he exits the building, his spots his uncle’s aging Crown Victoria parked almost directly in front of him. Without missing a beat, Peter jogs toward the car and slides inside, hoping for relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry for the soap opera level drama here. needed to be done. thanks for everyone's continued support: it means the world to me <3


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday tony stark. you my favoritest tin man in a can. <3

Ben’s precinct is noisy. Quieter than Queens’ streets, definitely; but it’s like walking into a hospital and being bombarded with an abundance of conversations and machinery. Even pre-spider bite, Peter struggled with an overabundance of noise visiting at May’s hospital. Now he has a legitimate reason. So the chatter from the front desk and ringing phones; whirling of elevators and soft _dings_ upon arrival, it’s hell on his senses. All the same, Peter clenches his fists a couple times as he attempts to acclimate. On top of everything else, he doesn’t need a sensory overload. Refuses to draw attention to himself.

“Come on,” Ben’s hand lands between Peter’s shoulder blades, “Henry’s got paperwork to finish.”

Henry, Ben’s partner for the last five years, waves as he heads off into the bullpen before them and Peter gets off a quick one in return. 

“You’re not showing me off again, are you?” 

“You bet your ass I am. They love you around here!”

They do, honestly. Peter adored visiting Uncle Ben at work as a kid and it’s not lessened as he’s aged, despite developing worry he won’t be as easily welcomed now that he’s growing up. 

Peter’s a needless worrier, he decides; the cops in Narcotics are friendly to Peter as they have been in the past. Henry announced their arrival before Ben leads Peter inside properly so anyone on shift that he’s met before come up to greet him. Ben likes to remind him how often Peter used to ham up attention whenever May would bring Peter for a visit. Then again, when Peter was six he wanted to follow in Uncle Ben’s footsteps and become a police officer, too. As he contemplates his past dreams, Peter realizes becoming a cop had been his only normal aspiration. (He doesn’t think wanting to be a superhero counts.) 

“There’s donuts in the break room,” someone informs him. 

He knows the smirk he sends to his uncle is mischievous based on Ben’s snort and head shake. Peter breaks out the big guns, pouting. 

“Go on then,” laughs Ben, tossing his head left. “Let’s see if you know how to handle your sugar better now than when you were littler.” 

“Hey!” Peter protests but his own laughter defeats the purpose. “No one likes a short joke, you giraffe.”

He trots off into the break room. Donut spread is four boxes from that bakery Ben’s obsessed with at the end of the block; so Peter wastes no time inhaling first a sprinkle, then plates up two double-chocolates. Of course he hadn’t realized until chewing the first how hungry he is; so he hopes nobody cares if he stuffs his face. 

“Coffee?” 

Peter turns at the voice, automatically shaking his head. It’s Ben’s Sergeant Meloni. “No thanks, sir. Ben says it stunts my growth.” 

The older man chuckles, returning the second mug he pulled out. “For the best, probably.” 

“Don’t give my kid caffeine, Serg! He’s got plenty natural energy.” Ben hollers from his desk in the middle of the room. “Unless you plan on entertaining him for the rest of the day?” 

Sergeant Meloni winks conspiratorially at Peter. 

Peter wanders toward Ben, plopping his plate on the corner of the desk, and says, “Why’s it always a stereotype when I come in here?” 

“Uh, maybe because we’re regular people, too, who also happen to love donuts.” Ben makes a swipe for one. 

Peter squawks. 

Ben’s head tosses back, cackling, but he leaves the donuts on Peter’s plate alone. 

Once Peter’s finished, Ben’s standing up and stretching his arms over top his head. “Up and at ‘em, short-stack. I’ve got a tour to give.” 

He’s opening his mouth in protest, he’s been here _plenty_ of times to where he could give a tour, but Peter notices there’s a reason Ben wants them to leave the open space. Mood souring once more, Peter stands, pitches his plate in the trash can beside him, and follows after his uncle with heavy steps. 

“Keep up the melancholy march and I’ll take you inside an interrogation room first,” Ben tosses over his shoulder, sending him a cheery grin. “Right through that room there.” he points left. “It’s the smelliest one, so I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” 

Peter sends him a deadpanned glare. 

They do end up inside an interrogation room, but Peter knows they use this one more for breaking news to family members instead of hounding criminals. He can’t remember what they call it, though. Ben shuts the door, blinds swaying, and indicates Peter sit where he pleases. 

“Can I stay with you and May the rest of the weekend?” Peter asks before his uncle has the chance to start the conversation. “I really don’t feel like going back home.”

Ben’s exhale hits Peter’s forearms. “You know you’re always welcome,” he nods, slouching down and watching Peter intently. “You’re gonna have to ask Mary first, though.”

Peter groans, “Really?” 

“Yeah, my rules.” 

Peter slips his phone from a front pocket and taps on it, sending off a quick text to his mother telling her his plans. Then he drops it on the tabletop and glances up at Ben, suddenly feeling shy. 

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“It should,” he mutters petulantly. 

“But it doesn’t.” 

Peter’s phone lights up, his mother’s face filling his screen. With an eye roll, Peter picks up. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’d like if you came home so we can talk.” comes his mother’s alto, her tone lighter over the phone than Peter knows it would be if they were face to face. “Today’s my only day off until middle of the week.” 

He shrugs, though she can’t see him. “I— I need time to cool off,” he tells her. “So I’m gonna stay with Ben and May; he said it’s fine.” 

His uncle’s eyebrows furrow at that statement and Peter peers down at the table. 

“Fine. But you need to be home tomorrow night because you have school Monday.” 

“Fine,” he parrots, not waiting for anything further and hangs up. 

“Pete,” Ben chastises. 

“What?” he growls his frustrations, traitorous tears teeming at the edges of his eyes. “Ben,” he’s miserable, locking his jaw and refusing to return his uncle’s gaze. 

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through. What Mary did— she shouldn’t have gone about it the way she has. I don’t know what all went down, but based on what you did tell me and how you’re acting? Pete, bud,” he trails off. 

He can infer what Ben’s hinting. 

“S’not fair,” he sniffles into the silence. 

“It’s not.” 

“Don’t want anything to change.”

“I know you don’t; but it’s going to have to change. Hey. Look at me for a sec, will you?”

Begrudgingly, Peter obeys. 

“You like Doctor Stark.”

Peter doesn’t think he is meant to reply but when Ben doesn’t continue on immediately he nods his agreement. 

“So what’s your beef? You too cool for him now or somethin’?” 

“No.” he grunts, feeling his heart kick harder inside its cavity. “If anything he’s too cool for me.” 

“Naw,” his uncle denies quickly. “Kids are always cooler than the parents. Fact of life.” 

Despite himself Peter snorts in amusement. 

“There’s a real Petey smile.” 

Try as he might, Peter can’t stop thinking about the morning’s revelation. All he wants to do is… forget, pretend it’s a bad dream, and start the morning over. He can’t. Ben has done a decent job on not pushing Peter over it; then again, Peter knows his uncle better than that and Ben’s not pressing, per se, but he will pass on sage advice that will end up making Peter think. And he doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

“It’s alright to feel the way you’re feeling.”

Peter jerks up. 

Ben’s smile is soft, a hint of something like melancholy on the fringes but Peter can’t quite pin it down. His eyes are bright like usual despite the unnamed emotion, though his expression isn’t one Peter likes seeing. It doesn’t add up with any image he’s held onto over the years of his uncle. 

“It’s going to take time to process, Peter. You can’t ignore it and I don’t think you should wish it away either.” 

 _He’s right,_ Peter realizes and slumps down further into his chair. 

“Take today and tomorrow to process away from your mother. You can hang out here with me until lunchtime and then we’ll go home and pester May.”

“I can head there now; it’s not that big a deal for me to catch the subway.” 

“No way, I want to hang out with you. And if something comes up before then, well I’ll either drop you off at that point or let you head back on your own. Plus, May had a night shift last night and she needs to sleep until at least noon or I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.” 

Peter breaths in a laugh and stands up when his uncle does. “I thought May hated night shifts.” 

“Oh, she does.” 

“So why’d she take one?” 

“Another nurse is on maternity leave and they needed the extra help. You know how hard of a time May has telling someone no.” 

He does know. Ultimately, Peter picked up that particular habit from May and Ben, their kindness a trait Peter’s always aspired to emulate. 

 

 

They arrive back at the apartment at one and by then May is awake. Peter had been afraid she wouldn’t be, seeing as she couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep, maybe just shy of five if her commute wasn’t long. She’s more of a light sleeper than her husband, but Peter suspects Ben text her before they left the precinct. Ben’s only got an hour lunch so he doesn’t stay any longer than a quick couple ham sandwiches and kisses May soundly on the lips. 

Peter gags in the background. 

At Ben’s departure, May moseys toward the couch and settles in beside him, tugging a woolen blanket across both their laps. 

“Wanna tell me what’s bothering you, bug?” 

Peter meets May’s wide eyes and sighs. “Did he tell you?”

“No. Said it was important and that you might need to talk.” 

Peter debates, unconsciously gnawing on his index finger until May swats it away. Finally, he forces out the first question that won’t leave him alone. “Did… did my mom ever talk to you about my, uh, my biological dad?” 

Her forehead creases. “Not really, no. When Richard first brought you guys around, Mary said that he wasn’t in the picture and she thought it was for the best. I just minded my own business, especially once they got married. You weren’t even two yet when they got married; Richard loved you like his own flesh and blood. I guess I just… let it go. In my head, Richard became your father.”

Ben’s weird talking about his brother but Peter’s always appreciated May’s blunt honesty. Out of the three adults in his life growing up, Ben was the least likely to talk about Peter’s once stepfather. Mary stopped talking so freely about him the older Peter got but for several years Peter _had_ referred to Richard as Dad. Richard must have adopted him at some point and had the intention of raising Peter alongside Mary. His mother’s conversations about his stepfather didn’t diminish until she started seriously dating. May’s never had any issues discussing anything that’s been on Peter’s mind. Perhaps she could talk about her brother-in-law more freely because she wasn’t as directly affected by his death in comparison to his brother and wife? Peter’s not sure, frankly doesn’t want to ask. 

“What’s brought all of this on?”

Peter blinks at May. “She told me this morning.” 

“Told you what?” 

“Who my father is,” he shuffles to match her posture, both of them tucked into a corner of the couch, Peter unconsciously stealing more of the blanket away from his aunt. 

He recaps the morning for May, giving her the details that he left out on his initial telling to Ben. The story continues to feel… strange and striking, as if he’s recounting a poor attempt of trash TV storyline than his actual life. And yet… and yet, the more Peter ends up saying _Tony Stark is my father_ it chips at his walls he’s unintentionally built. Odd, yes; but that’s definitely going to last longer yet. 

In a way, he’s stressed by how May might take the news. It’s no secret that she’s never been Mister Stark’s biggest fan, though his aunt has never been as vocal as his mother about her disdain. 

“And he said he’s suing for custody?” May clarifies. 

He nods. 

His aunt reaches over to pat his thigh. “I think you’ve got your answer, bug.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s got any straight, solid answers today, but Peter keeps that to himself. 

He asks to watch reruns of their favorite baking show and that’s how they spend the rest of their afternoon and evening. 

 

 

Morning light doesn’t feel any better. At first, he’s startled being back in his uncle and aunt’s apartment. Then as he blinks a few times, he remembers _why_ , precisely, he’s here and not at home and yesterday’s events hit him all at once. 

“Oof,” he exhales, rubbing his chest as if he’s physically been hit. 

It’s gonna be a shit morning, he decides, especially when several tears slide down his cheeks, getting lost in the pillow. 

Ben must have a _Peter-Is-Sad_ sense because his door creaks open less than five minutes later, popping his head inside, and sending him a mega-watt smile. 

“Pancakes?” 

“May likes French toast better.” he points out, turning over to face the doorway. 

“So? She gets ‘em all the time. We like pancakes; so I’ll ask again: do you want pancakes this morning?” 

Peter grins, “Yeah.” he tosses off the covers. “I’ll come help you.” 

Ben doesn’t protest. He leaves the door as is and gives Peter his privacy. Not that Peter plans on changing out of his pajamas he’s wearing on loan. Anything huge on him is his favorite, specifically if he’s sporting sweater-paws. Peter does pitstop in the bathroom before shuffling out into the kitchen, beelining for the refrigerator to pull out ingredients. And orange juice. 

Unlike his birthday, Ben’s adamant on him eating fruit. Peter doesn’t care _too much_ about it, though certainly does not mean that he’ll make his uncle enjoy his quick compliance. They argue on the validation between strawberries and blueberries for five minutes before Peter decides on raspberries. Ben doesn’t say anything but he does eye Peter for a solid twenty seconds before returning to flipping the pancakes. 

Peter sets the table for two. 

“Yeah, good call,” his uncle nods as he places a plate piled high with sugary goodness. “May’s not gonna be up for _at least_ another couple hours.”

He pours the orange juice while Ben brings the cutlery over and they finish their routines until everything is ready and they sit down to eat. 

“Hey,” Ben calls for his attention once his uncle is on his third pancake. 

Peter’s cheeks are stuffed as he asks, “What?” 

“I’m not gonna badger you over this, I _do_ want to give you time to think things over.” Ben prefaces and Peter bite backs a groan, anticipating where this conversation is headed. “However, you shouldn’t pull away from Doctor Stark right now, Peter.”

“I—” he goes to deny. Then he stops and thinks and realizes unconsciously he may have started to pull away. Or if he hadn’t already he _would_. He nods wordlessly. 

They finish eating in silence. Naturally Ben finishes before he does, so Ben dumps his plate in the sink and begins clean up. Peter keeps eating, munching absentmindedly on a forkful of raspberries, wishing he had some whipped cream. Ben goes back toward his bedroom to get ready for work and Peter’s too distracted to notice beside a precursory thought in the back of his mind. His hearing is too advance to ignore entirely but Peter’s lost to his thoughts, so he hears Ben opening and closing drawers and May’s soft snores, but he’s not focused on it. His stomach demands the attention of pancakes, though, so he keeps eating machanically. It’s nice to eat without anyone’s attention. He decides he’ll make May a quick batch whenever she wakes up, not intending to allow any potential leftovers to go to waste or get cold. (He’d eat them even if they were.)

“Love you, monster,” Ben’s voice startles him out of his thoughts and his uncle steals a half-hug over the back of Peter’s kitchen chair. “I probably won’t see you when I get back,” he tacks on. 

“Okay, Ben; love you too!” he smiles up at the detective as he heads out the door. 

Peter puts his plate in the sink. Then he goes and curls up on the sofa, playing half-heartedly on his phone. Ben’s words keep poking and prodding at his brain. Nothing is holding his attention because of it.

“Ugh,” he groans, stifling a laugh, and he scrolls until finding Mister Stark’s contact. 

He has no idea what he’s going to say; hasn’t even thought about it. Peter likes to pretend he’s a planner but he’s not. He’d like to be one. His mentor _did_ stress that Peter call him and he realizes that his uncle is correct on the front that Mister Stark doesn’t deserve Peter ghosting him. 

He calls him. 

“Hey, kiddo.” Mister Stark’s voice floats through the speaker having picked up after two rings. 

Peter relaxes back into the couch. “Hi,” he returns, suddenly not sure what to call the man on the other end. 

“I’m glad to hear from you.” 

The other man’s honesty pulls a tiny smile. “Well,” he starts, “I just— I wanted to make sure it’s okay if… if I can still come by this week for my internship.” 

“Yeah,” Mister Stark is quick to reassure, “Course it’s more than alright.” 

“Would it be a problem if I came over Friday? I— I still—”

“I understand and it’s fine. You can come over Friday instead of Tuesday.” He pauses. “You don’t have to worry about it, but thank you for letting me know.”

“Yeah. Th—thank you.” 

His stutter has made a terrible comeback over the weekend and Peter hopes it goes away. Granted that means he’ll have to wrangle his anxiety into compliance. 

“Are you doing okay? I know that’s probably not what you want to be asked, but I would like to know all the same.”

Peter sighs, “Not really, but I think I will be. I just need time.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can help you with?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” 

 

* * *

 

May sent him packing when she needed to run errands and though she didn’t _kick him out_ Peter would have liked to stay another night and avoided his mother. All the same, she isn’t home when Peter lets himself into the apartment and a huge weight lifts off his shoulders. Mary had said she was working, but a part of Peter had anticipated an ambush upon his arrival. 

He revels in the silence. 

Peter’s able to avoid his mother for a few days. He wonders if a lot of it has to do with the fact that she’s actually allowing him to avoid her or if he’s gotten better at tactical avoidance. Before Saturday’s drama unleashed, Peter knew that she was going to have to take on a week or so of overtime. So it could go either way, truthfully.

His luck holds out until Wednesday afternoon. 

Peter comes through the front door with plans on swapping out his textbooks for his suit but the sight of his mother at the kitchen table derails that idea. He’s seen her once in passing since Saturday and they didn’t even exchange words. Now, with his back against the door, Peter’s calculating the odds of getting passed his mother without breaking the streak. 

“Come sit down with me, cub.” 

No such luck then. 

He nods once then adds on, “I’m going to put my things in my room first.” 

Peter stalls for a few minutes. Then realizes he can’t keep putting it off, so Peter drags himself back into the front of the apartment and sits across from his mother at the table. 

He fiddles with his phone, eyes trained downward so he doesn’t have to see what his mother is expressing. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Deftly, he glances up then away after a beat. Shrugs. Returns to spinning his phone around.

His mother’s palm comes into view, fingers wiggling, and Peter pleads with her silently not to take it. All he gets is another waggle in return. 

“You can have it back after we’re done.” 

He slaps the phone into her palm and watches as she tucks it away on the kitchen countertop, behind a basket full of bills and junk mail. He eyes it with sad longing. 

If she’s wanting him to make any move to join this conversation, then she’s got another thing coming. 

Mary exhales and by the sounds of it she’s dragging her hand through her hair. “You gotta understand: you’ve been mine your whole life. I made the choice not to tell Tony after I was pregnant with you because I assumed the worst. I had only gotten my masters; and he’d been a thirty-year-old billionaire businessman and… well. Who would have wanted to co-parent a child with a fling? I’ll admit that I underestimated Tony.”

“How?” he can’t keep from inquiring about her last statement. 

“Because I was selfish,” she replies. “I told him the truth with the intention it would put him off, that it would cause him to pull away from you. I thought he would end the internship. And he didn’t. I’m surprised by how vehemently he reacted by it. Perhaps I judged him correctly nearly sixteen years ago, but I had no right to make the assumption he hasn’t changed.” she pauses, waiting to see if he’ll add anything, and when he remains tight lipped she continues on, saying, “I’m so sorry, Peter.” 

“Why’d you tell me the way you did?”

“Because I was frustrated and running on lack of sleep.” Mary shrugs. “I was coming home and saw him leaning against one of his black cars and I just… lost it. Panicked. Certainly didn’t want to air my dirty laundry out on the streets, so I told him we could talk up here. You were supposed to be with Ned. I wasn’t planning on telling you.” 

“Ever? Or just…,” he trails off, terrified to fill in the blanks. 

“No, I would have told you eventually,” she sighs. “I get it. You’ve been curious about him since I told you Richard was only your stepfather. You’d stop bringing him up constantly when I wasn’t giving you the answers you sought, but that never kept you from _asking._ You’re so much like him, like Tony.

“And I’ve realized it wasn’t fair of me to keep you from him. No matter my decisions. You may be mine, but you’re his, too. And that’s why I’ve agreed to a temporary joint custody agreement until an official one can be processed. So far it’s just between me and him. I don’t really have the money— anyway, we’re going to do every other weekends starting next weekend. And Tony insisted you won’t lose your internship days, but as of right now you won’t spend those nights with him.”

“Will I stay at Stark Tower?” 

“No. Tony mentioned he’s going to purchase a new penthouse and it’ll take a bit to settle in. Not sure how quickly he thinks he’s going to move and settle in.”

Peter imagines being a billionaire opens up all kinds of avenues. Wonders then if his mother is being willfully ignorant on that fact. She’s intelligent, too, so he decides she is being stubborn. 

As the silence settles and begins to linger, Peter shuffles in his seat.

“So that’s… it?” he presses out, fighting back saltiness at not being included on the decision making process. The adults planned it all out. He’ll be carted back and forth between Queens and Manhattan between two non-divorced parents. Great. 

“Yes.” 

He stews. 

Then, “Can I have my phone back please?” 

Mary swipes his phone, handing it off without words. 

He takes it and leaves for his bedroom. 

He’s got a missed text from Ned. Groans in frustrated indecisiveness, Peter contemplates for what may the fiftieth time since Monday what to tell his best friend. Peter’s been _In A Mood_ , as Ned so aptly calls it, and Peter’s promised he’ll tell him once he knows what to say. Now he’s gotta come up with a way to break the news. Like, _oh hey Ned, so you know our idol and favorite superhero? Yeah, he’s my dad. Surprise!_

Joy. 

Instead, he sends him a text and asks if he can come over for a talk.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s weird. It’s his first weekend staying in Manhattan at Mister Stark and Miss Potts’s new penthouse, and he can’t sleep. He’s struggled falling asleep in new places for as long as he can remember. Tonight’s no different. Toss and turn. Force himself into stillness. Brain rampaging. Static-like tingling up his legs or an arm falling asleep forces him to move. Count backwards in another language. Toss and turn. Repeat. 

He didn’t take into consideration his advanced hearing presenting any issues.

He overhears the adults somewhere else in the penthouse, most likely the living room or kitchen based on how far their inflictions appear, but Peter’s not great at guesstimating. Everything sounds closer than it is when he’s got advanced hearing on his side. And he most definitely should not eavesdrop on this conversation. 

Curiosity wins out. 

“I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?” his mentor’s voice is low, raw and desperate, and it’s nothing Peter has heard from the man previously. 

“You know you are, Tony; we’ve discussed this at length.” Miss Potts’s tone is gentle and Peter strains to focus on it. 

“He deserves not to have two fucked up parents.”

“Doesn’t everyone? But we’re human. We make mistakes and grow from them.” A pause, followed up by rustling. “Honey, do you honestly think I’d have come back or agreed to marry you if I didn’t think you were one hundred percent serious about your recovery? After all we’ve been through together.”

“I don’t want alcohol in the house.”

Peter’s stomach cramps, spasming at the overheard admission, how positively _wrecked_ the older man sounds. 

“More than alright with me. You know your limits. But Tony?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t let your fears dictate—”

“I’m not. I promise.” 

A longer pause. 

“Do you think I need to have a conversation with him?”

“About our having or not having alcohol in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you need to have one with him?”

“Don’t think it could hurt. I just— Pep, I don’t think I’m the one that ought to be giving it to him.”

“ _Tony.”_

“It’s not like I can hide my past from him. I don’t think I would, but the option would be nice. Kid’s got shittier luck than I have; because alcoholism runs on _both_ sides of his family.” 

Miss Potts hums. 

Peter shifts until he’s lying on his back, eyes trained on the ceiling. The sleepless city continues beneath him. Peter’s known Queens the entirety of his life, but maybe he’s one and the same with Manhattan. He knows a fair amount about Tony Stark’s life. But Peter’s always paid attention to his achievements and research and his company over any reasons bloodthirsty journalists had on bringing him down. He knows that adults can drink and do so responsibly. Despite his mother’s minor struggles with alcohol, Peter’s saw May and Ben drink responsibly, watching the difference between pleasure use and abuse. It’s weird, but he’s getting over it. No use judging someone prematurely, especially when Peter’s not in a particular person’s shoes. Plus, Uncle Ben knew not to show Peter the negative signs of media. Ultimately it was unavoidable because all the same, Peter found out and made his own choices on how to view his idol. 

Now here he is lying in bed of Tony Stark’s new penthouse; eavesdropping on a private conversation he has no business investing (though he is affected by it); restless and tired and battling fluctuating anxiety over the fact he’s staying at his father’s place. Because it’s not just Tony Stark’s home; it’s going to become Peter’s, too, now that he’s actively spending time with his father.  

He still can’t bring himself to call Mister Stark his father. Dad. The man offered up his first name as a compromise earlier that night. Yet Peter’s struggling under every new change and can’t make himself call him _anything_ out loud.

He sighs. 

“Let’s go to bed.” 

Peter hears Miss Potts encourage her fiancé to follow suit. A shot of fear shoots into his bloodstream and Peter flops onto his left side so his back faces the doorway. Heart hammers away, loud and irregular in his eardrums. Logic tells him he’s acting like he’s five instead of fifteen. 

“Should I check on him?”

Now he feels vindicated. Attempts to slow his breathing down. And he’s _thankful_ FRIDAY hasn’t been installed throughout the entire place yet to rat him out. Mister Stark seems like the kind of person to rely heavily on his technology, especially as Peter’s been a witness to his mentor asking his A.I. whereabouts of his fiancée. 

“Don’t wake him up. If he’s a light sleeper like you are, then we’re in for a treat.” 

Tony scoffs. The noise is directly outside Peter’s bedroom door. “I take offense to that statement, Miss Potts.” 

“Be quick then.” 

And her footsteps and heartbeat continue passed Peter’s doorway. 

He waits. 

Listens to the man outside shift around and waits to see if Tony Stark will open the door. 

He does. 

Peter’s comforter hides his face up to his nose. As the door is nudged open a swatch of soft yellow light filters in, part of it blocked out by a dark figure but it creeps up beyond Peter’s bed-frame as well. His eyes protest.

Nobody says anything. The figure never moves away from the entryway. And Peter continues breathing deep. 

Less than sixty seconds later the door closes. 

When he wakes up, he does so slowly, which is odd because the last thing he recalls is fear he’ll never fall asleep in this new, strange place. He’s floating and could easily roll back over and drop off the face of the planet for a couple more hours. Peter rarely can fall back asleep after waking up but he thinks he’s got the magic touch right now. Inhales and closes his eyes. 

Then he smells strong coffee and his brain flips a switch. He’s wide awake. 

He leaves the bathroom after brushing his teeth with a brand new electric toothbrush and using the toilet, Peter shuffles out into the kitchen. He’s not sure if Mister Stark is a morning person or not, though Peter knows someone has to be up. Who would he rather see? 

Pepper is at the island. 

“Good morning, Peter!”

Her smile is infectious, similar to Aunt May’s, so Peter smiles back automatically, “Morning, Pepper.” 

Tentatively he takes a seat at the counter, watching Miss Potts work on cutting up a mango. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, her bright eyes finding him as she continues dicing the fruit without looking. 

He shrugs, “Once I fell asleep. I’m weird about sleeping in new places.” 

“Tony’s the same way,” she admits, finally returning to her work. “Well, if you can ever get the man to sleep, that is, but don’t tell him I’m giving all his secrets away in one go.” 

Peter laughs under his breath. “Do you need any help?” 

“Do you like omelettes?” 

He nods. 

“Excellent. Then if you would like, would you mind getting the ingredients out and we’ll start on those. Tony should be out here soon; I made our first batch of coffee for him.” 

Less than five minutes later Mister Stark comes out and the three of them work on fixing breakfast. Domesticity is odd for a few beats. As he settles into a rhythm, Peter understands it’s just like making breakfast with his mother or May and Ben. It’s odd because it’s new. Still, cottony aftertaste lingers at the back of his throat.

They work well on keeping the atmosphere light. All the way until Miss Potts excuses herself for her home office to finish up paperwork and Mister Stark asks Peter to hang out with him in the living room. 

Too many setups like this one from his uncle and aunt tells Peter he’s in for a conversation he’d rather avoid. All the same, he follows Mister Stark and ends up sitting on a gray sectional as the older man parks himself on the coffee table. 

“Can I be honest with you?” 

Peter nods. 

“You’ve mentioned to me your mother is in recovery.” 

Cheeks heating up, Peter nods. 

“Okay. That’s fine, by the way. I’m not sure if you know this, but I’m in recovery as well.”

He nods a second time.

Mister Stark exhales for several beats, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “I just want to let you know where I’m at in my recovery. If I so desire I can drink and not fall into the urge to drown myself; but I generally stray from it. No point tempting fate. I’ve been sober for less than a year now, but before that it was four. After Ultron, I just— was in bad shape. Went down a rabbit hole and pushed everyone away. It took Pepper breaking up with me to get my shit together again. 

“All I want to say is it’s something I am constantly working on. I can’t speak for Mary and her own struggles. But Peter I want you to know you can always come to me, talk to me about anything. And if you feel uncomfortable with me, I promise you Pepper and Rhodey will be there for you in a heartbeat, too.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, throat tight. 

“I’m sorry life gave you two shitty parents, Peter. You deserve better so much better. I honestly, truly am so fucking sorry because I know how much it sucks. My dad was— an incredibly mean drunk. And I grew to hate him. My mother wasn’t the best, rarely stood up for me when Dad would yell at me, but I still loved her. Love her today. I know how it’s like... to be torn between wanting to get away and not leave what you’ve always known. 

“I want you able to come to me. I don’t want to be like Howard; my kid petrified of me. As Pepper reminds me, I _am_ human, bud. I’m flawed and full of anxiety and an insomniac and I could list my issues to you for hours but what I want you to know I want you now and forever, Peter. You’re my kid. Okay? For better or worse we are a team now and I’m all in. Are you?”

He’s stunned but automatically he denies, “I don’t think you’re a shitty person.”

Mister Stark’s eyes close, his hands clenching into fists. 

Peter wavers, still processing the vulnerability his mentor spewed on him. It’s a lot. Too much to comprehend at once and yet... yet he knows he needs to reassure the older man, too. “Yeah. I’m— I’m all in,” his voice is a whisper, but he hopes the conviction is strong beneath it. 

Mister Stark’s eyes unclench and Peter’s pinned down by emotive brown eyes. He’s too afraid to fidget, wants the gaze to end; though he understands this is a huge moment between them. Whatever uncomfortableness floating through his veins, Peter doesn’t want to lose the easy camaraderie between them. So he sits still. 

His mentor clears his throat and awkwardly asks, “Would it— be alright if I gave you a hug?”

He jerks his head, murmuring, “Yeah.” 

Peter’s tugged forward gently and he falls into the embrace. It’s weird. Yet kinda nice. He’s never gotten a full-blown hug out of the man. Peter’s tactile; so without thinking too hard about his actions, he nuzzles into Mister Stark’s collarbone, and simply breathes. 

Peace settles atop him and Peter believes everything is starting to fall into place.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags have been updated, my friends <3

“Peter, are you even listening to me?”

He blinks up at his best friend, whose face is scrunched up in concern instead of irritation, and Peter fights back a yawn. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he pushes out and shifts around, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Overhead lights help somewhat. “It’s been a rough week. Understatement, sorry.”

“For everyone, man, but uh...,” Ned glances left then right and leans in as if he’s sharing a secret, “It’s not because of... your other friend, right?”

When Ned’s hands begin shifting into webslinging poses, Peter scrambles to toss himself over the cafeteria table to cover up Ned’s incriminatingly obvious gesture. “Dude!”

“Sorry!” squawks Ned, cheeks flushing. “Sorry, but like... is that the reason?”

Peter sits back in his seat, rolling his eyes as his lips pull up, “No. All my classes are collectively attempting to hog tie me and roast me over an open flame; gotta stay on top of my game. Sleep is for the weak, and I, sir, am not the weak.”

“It only makes sense to me because I’m running on four hours of sleep.”

Peter shrugs. 

“But did you hear my question?”

“What question?” 

Ned groans. 

And so their early morning session in the cafeteria goes studying for AcaDec. It’s Monday before Thanksgiving break and Midtown students are fretful. All but one of Peter’s classes are doing midterms before winter break come mid-December. Normally, the best friends would study over the weekend but Peter only just got home late last night from his second time staying with Mister Stark and Miss Potts. Peter had spent time studying with both adults, and found out he adores Miss Potts’s quirky sense of humor. More time he spends with her he understands why his mentor will marry her. She’s fantastic. 

“Can we take a break from questions?” Peter asks, rubbing the space between his eyebrows with his index finger. 

Ned tosses down his notecards, “Sure.” 

He exhales through his lips. 

“So will Iron Man get pissed at you if you fail any of your classes?”

“What?” Peter jerks up, blinking out of his daze. “No? At least… I don’t think so?”

Ned hums. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Well, _you asked.”_

“Your mom gets irritated if your grades dip.” 

“She gets irritated if they dip below a _C_ and that happened _one time._ I don’t like it when my grades dip. And neither do you!” his voice pitches the longer he talks, but Peter’s having trouble maintaining his composure as his stomach spasms. “ _Your mom_ gets upset if you get below a B plus.” 

Ned, bless him, doesn’t take offense to Peter’s attitude change; simply agrees. “Yeah. It’s just… _Iron Man,_ dude.” 

Iron Man has been their main conversation topic since Peter’s confession. Needless to say his friend’s mind has been blown. He’s in the _pinch-me-my-best-friend-not-only-knows-Iron-Man-but-is-the-son-of-Iron-Man_ phase. Ned’s enthusiasm is mostly amusing, slightly repetitive. Needlessly to say it’s helped him acclimate a bit more having a friend on board and balance out some of Peter’s mounting anxiety. 

Bell rings. 

Slowly, Peter and Ned pack up, rising and heading off to class. 

School isn’t anything exciting. Most classes aren’t introducing new material this week and Peter turns in homework packets as the day goes around only given more as thanks. Ned has three classes with him, two in the morning and one in the afternoon, so the day drags after lunch. All the same, 2:32 rolls around and Peter jumps out of his seat, shuffling out of class like everyone else. Ned meets up at Peter’s locker and five minutes later they are out Midtown’s front doors. 

Outside is gray, overcast. Soon as the wind kisses Peter’s cheeks he’s shivering. 

The friends head down the front steps, heading left out, and getting lost in the crowd. Peter huddles closer to his friend, hoping to sap some of his warmth. 

“In the mood for Delmar’s today?” 

Peter’s stomach rumbles but he shakes his head negatively, “I blew through the last of my money last week.”

“So I’ll get it, dude.” 

“Nope.” 

“Peter, yeah; it’s not a big deal.” 

“It is and it’s fine, Ned.” 

“Pete—”

So they bicker all the way toward the deli, which is generally where the friends split their trip to their respective homes. Ned comes to a halt outside the corner store. 

“Let me buy you a sandwich,” his friend presses, tone light but eyes narrowed in determination. 

Peter does not have the opportunity to decline, _again,_ when Ned makes the decision for him by tugging on Peter’s jacket and entering their favorite deli shop. Ned drags them toward the countertop, ordering a number two and four respectively, one with extra mayo and one extra pickles, squished flat.

“School alright, you two?” Mister Delmar inquires, handing back Ned’s change. 

Peter’s petting Murph, finding the cat’s sweet spot right off the bat, and basking in him purring steadily. “It’s okay,” he nods, barely glancing up to smile at the owner. 

“Just studying for finals,” his best friend adds.

Too soon for Peter their food finishes and they are braving the cold again. Apparently Peter is easily corralled today because he’s talked into going back to Ned’s place, his friend citing a lack of a second food bag and subs better fresh. All the same Peter tags along. 

It isn’t like Peter has anyone waiting on him when he gets home; with the holidays, his mother’s working longer hours. He isn’t expecting to see her until after nine. 

Once they settle inside the Leeds’s apartment, saying hello to Missus Leeds and avoiding Ari, Ned drops their food on his rug and Peter plops on the ground, diving into the bag first. 

“Hey did you get my text after lunch?” 

“What?”

“I sent you a meme.”

“No?” he’s digging out his cell and entering his password. Nothing pops up. It takes a beat before he realizes why he never received a notification. “Phone’s dead,” he says, trying to hide the embarrassment that his mother must have forgotten to pay the bill. He shoves it back into his front pocket of his jeans. “What was it?” 

Ned believes him and pulls it up fluidly on his own, working phone. 

Peter makes a mental note to bring it up to his mother. 

Only as the evening passes and Peter returns home, sitting out on the sofa with the television on low, Mary remains gone. Last few days it’s been a trend— well if he doesn’t count the weekend away— of his mother being gone and Peter is growing accustomed to being alone more often. It does little for reassuring his anxiety, especially tonight as Peter has no way of contacting his mother. She has the tendency of saying to suck it up and she’ll be home later, but it’s nice hearing from her all the same. 

When ten thirty comes around, Peter decides he’s had enough from the television. So he turns everything off, double checks the front door is locked, before shuffling into the hallway bathroom for a quick shower. Exhaustion sits heavily in his bones and Peter hopes sleep will find him quickly. 

His alarm startles him awake. 

Movements disjointed as he dresses and gathers his school belongings, Peter heads out of his room ten minutes after waking in search of breakfast. 

He isn’t expecting the kitchen light to be on as soon as he enters the hallway. It’s then he hears the television and Peter creeps carefully into the living space, weary what he’ll find. Logically he knows it’s his mother but he isn’t expecting her out here when she’s got a perfectly serviceable bedroom in the back. 

Mary is asleep on the couch, forgotten laundry basket tipped over atop the coffee table. 

Peter winces. 

As quiet as he can be Peter shuffles into the kitchen for food, wondering what he can make that won’t wake his mother. Cereal, he decides, and maybe a banana if they haven’t become too ripe. He dislikes overly sweet fruit. Or maybe it’s just overly sweet bananas. 

“Peter?” 

He must have been too loud, he realizes as he spins around to see his mother sitting up on the sofa, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with one hand and patting down her hair with the other. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he demurs, returning milk back into the fridge. 

A part of him knows that she must have come home intoxicated last night if she crashed on the couch. It used to be an old habit of hers. Internally he sighs. His hope for her recovery flounders every single day and now it is like watching the fin of a ship bob, angry bubbles gurgling away.

“Hey, did you know our phones are shut off?” 

“Yeah,” she hums, a hint of a clipped warning lingering beneath. 

He goes to inquire when they will be turned back on when she scolds, 

“See you forgot to finish the laundry.” 

He sets his jaw. “I’ll get it after school today, I promise.” 

“Will you? Because I asked you to do it yesterday and you neglected it.”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Peter. I asked you to do a single damned thing and you didn’t do it.” 

He tosses down his spoon into his bowl, “What’s your problem?”

“Your loud ass is my problem right now.” 

“I’ll get it later.” he reiterates. “Let it go.”

“You’re not doing anything right now.” 

“Neither are you,” he gripes under his breath, hands clenched over the countertop’s edges. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

One moment his mother sits rigidly on the sofa, he blinks, then the next their laundry basket is launched in his direction. It sails far right. Clothes spilling out. Peter flinches, ducking down. Loud _whack_ resounds as the plastic basket makes contact with a wall directly behind where he stands. 

Peter steals a backwards glance to see a couple loosely folded towels sit inside. 

He is yanked backwards suddenly and Peter tries readjusting his posture as Mary shoves him. All he can do is stumble. Her pupils are slightly dilated. As she advances toward him they maintain eye contact: piercing and livid. He could hit her back, he knows. Each time she shoves him back Peter contemplates shoving her in return, causing her to stumble instead of him; he does not. He refuses. His back connects with a wall. His head knocks against something metal, perhaps one of those adages people like to decorate with in their kitchens. He can’t remember the layout of his own kitchen, too zeroed on his mother’s rising anger. A raging, unprovoked dragon. Peter has nothing to protect himself with; he’s naked against any oncoming fiery attack.  

His mother’s dead stare sends a shiver down his spine. Beneath the skin of his spine, beginning along his nape, tingles run up and down with a feather-light touch; uninvited and a warning. 

Despite his freakish intuition he doesn’t see his mother reach down by their feet. It is out of focus as Peter watches as she swings the teal laundry basket at him, belatedly bringing his right forearm up to protect his face. _Whack._ His arm takes the brunt of the initial hit but plastic brushes along his forehead and nose as well. 

Peter cries out; he’s uncertain what, precisely, he says. Only knows his body curls defensively and braces for the next hit. And the next. And the one after that. By the third or fourth hit, he hears plastic splinter so the followup _whack_ radiates with searing heat as jagged edges pierce into his skin. 

“Stop,” he pants. 

Her arm rears back. 

He reaches out and stops her, grabbing onto her wrist and allowing more pressure than may be necessary, forcing eye contact with her. “Stop,” he wishes his voice is commanding, strong and authoritative, though it comes out as a meek plea. “Mom, stop it. Stop!”

Without any effort he wrestles the broken laundry basket out of her hands and he pitches it across the room where it sails over the sofa. 

They maintain their eye contact as Peter cowers into the wall, Mary blinking unapologetically at him as if daring him to speak again. 

“Clean it up.” Mary hisses then heads down the hallway, her door closing firmly. 

Peter slides down the wall, shoving his head into his folded up knees, and doesn’t bother breathing through his tears. He’ll have to miss school today. Everything hurts. Any mental stock of his injuries are mixed messages. He assumes the headache is from sobs he presses into his knees and anxiety stomping around his nervous system. Peter’s forearm flares with heat, pain surmounting, beating to the tune of his racing heart. All he can see is the rage on his mother’s face between her hits; blurring teal racing forward from behind her back; and if he thinks hard enough, he’s reminded of all those months ago, when Mary had been coming down from another bender and pushed Peter down a flight of stairs, resulting in his broken arm. He doesn’t appreciate the irony of the situations. However, Peter knows nothing is broken this time around. A miniature silver lining if there is one.

At least now he heals quickly. 

Before, Peter was still healing from a broken arm when he got bitten. His glasses and arm cast were the first things outgrown post-transformation. (Though he’d rather have dealt with his mother’s bullshit and being blinder than a fruit bat than seventy-two hours of violent illness.) 

Before, Peter liked to pretend he did not know any better. As if the signs of his mother’s condition deteriorating were not obvious. As if he had to hide her bad decisions, collecting her dirty secrets like a greedy debt collector. Nobody could find out.

Before, he lost her. 

He’s too afraid of losing her again. 

If he loses her now, Peter has no idea what will become of him. He’s been told there is a supposed custody arrangement being hashed out, but is it official? If his mother is forced back into rehabilitation, where would he go: back to his uncle and aunt’s or to his biological father’s home? He skated by foster care once; could he a second time? 

Too many uncertainties sit like mercury in his belly, anxiety as lead, poisoning him ever so slowly with each passing worry. He can’t survive another bout with his mother in rehabilitation, he _can’t._ He’s unfamiliar with the justice system yet Peter would bet every last cent to his name (admittedly not much of anything) a judge wouldn’t send him back to his mother. She has been his one constant. Everyone else had been in and out of their lives or died. Mary is his mother; she’s going to make mistakes, _has_ continuously made them, and yet it doesn’t change the fact that she is _his._ Does he want to keep staying with her? He doesn’t know. What he does know is he can’t tell anyone. A secret; he can do it; he’s good at that. He doesn’t want her to hurt him but he can’t lose her. _He can’t._

From the back bedrooms Peter listens as his mother paces around and when it appears like she may exit, acid shoots up his esophagus and he scrambles around, putting rough pressure on his right wrist, and stands. He hisses at the pain, cradling the arm close, though loosely. Hurriedly he peers for a hiding spot.

Peter scampers across the tile flooring and situates himself on the floor behind the sofa’s armrest. His back faces the broken laundry basket. However he ought to be hidden from sight. Peter prays she does not come looking for him. Squeezes his eyes and hunches forward.

His heart sprints toward the finish line inside his throat. 

Mary leaves her bedroom and her strides are purposeful and lead her straight toward the front of the apartment. There are small rummaging noises where Peter assumes she gathers her purse and keys before the front door slams shut. 

His shoulders creep up into his ears. 

Silence rings hollowly. 

Peter knows he ought to move. His back turned achy a while ago. Legs and behind went tingly and every shift ignites further sensations. His body hums with excess energy and Peter fears an appearance of an overload. Try as he might he gathers his will and blocks out noises, thoughts, emotions. 

Peter simply sits. 

Sometime later he lists sideways onto the sofa, his shoulder digging into the mechanisms hidden beneath the fraying cloth. 

A knock on the front door. 

Peter stays still. 

Nothing will happen if Peter does not participate. 

He zones out and when he blinks a blurry figure squats before him and he blinks blinks blinks some more and Peter watches as Uncle Ben materializes like a sepia water stain bleeding out into something resembling tangibility. Or maybe it’s like trying to watch a sunrise and only realizing it rose after the fact. It’s hard to tell. 

“Ben?” he questions, throat sore. 

“Hey,” his uncle’s voice is so low Peter’s advanced hearing struggles to hear. “Midtown called me.”

Peter blinks, words pinging inside his head like a bouncing computer logo, before he comprehends why the other man is here. “Sorry.” 

“No apologies needed,” Ben reassures, slowly reaching out and his fingers graze his bad forearm. 

Peter flinches, his movements too quick and he tumbles backwards. 

Ben reacts quickly, reaching back out for him but grabs the opposite arm to steady him. Once Peter is sitting up properly again, the detective poses, “Wanna tell me why you’re not at school?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Let me see your arm.” 

It’s a bad idea if Peter’s ever heard one. He knows what will happen if Ben sees his arm. Peter hasn’t even looked at it. Peter hasn’t even looked at it but he doesn’t need to see it. It should already be healing by now, but it’s not. Wonders why. Wonders maybe if trauma and anxiety slow down healing processes. Anything is possible and Peter isn’t in control. 

“Peter.” 

His eyes meet his uncle’s. 

“Your arm, bud; lemme see it,” his prompt is followed up by his palm being offered. 

A piece of him smarts at the treatment, as if Peter is five and can’t do anything himself. So he wavers, torn between not wanting and needing to show Ben. Compelled by his need to be protected by someone he trusts; taken aback by earlier that morning when his trust was broken. Where will he go? Can he betray his own mother? Who will protect him?

Even inside his head is much too loud. Screaming. Attention-seeking. Earth rumbling beneath his tumultuous thoughts. Rocky. 

Peter rolls back his henley and reveals a raw arm. 

Uncle Ben winces. 

Peter paws at the material to slide back over his arm when Ben’s hand hovers as if to stop him but it never makes contact. 

“What happened?”

“I can’t.” he whispers, hoarse and honest. Back-peddling. His heart jumps into the back of his throat, his trembling body screaming he has made a mistake.

“Your mom?” Ben guesses. 

His silence is his answer. 

Ben pulls out his cell phone. “I’m going to take pictures, alright?”

He plays dumb, “For what?” 

“Like last time,” his uncle explains patiently, an eyebrow arched as the only sign he doesn’t buy Peter’s bluff. “As evidence.” 

“No.” he’s adamant. “It was an accident.” 

“Peter,” the other man exhales noisily, “ _no.”_

He did the same exact thing last time, too. Deflect, lie, refuse to cooperate. Put up such a hassle he knew if Ben and May weren’t so stubborn then this year would have been much different. All the good it did was serve to drag out Peter’s anxieties. 

Ben tips his face up, leaning close and ghosts an index finger along his cheekbone. “What’d she hit you with?” when he remains silent his eyes flick around, no doubt spotting the laundry basket behind him he can tell by the moment Ben’s irises widen, then narrow. “That? Your laundry basket?”

“I forgot to put away the laundry last night.” slips out, his eyes flitting away from his uncle’s rising ire. 

“So she thought it was, what, a fantastic idea to hit you?”

He shrugs. 

“Peter, let me take pictures and we’ll go down to my precinct and report her. I made a mistake advocating rehab for her; I thought Mary was sincere about wanting to get better, to be better _for you.”_ his uncle breathes sharply through his nose, face pinched. Upon smoothing out his expression his tone lightens, “You know I’ll take care of you, bud.”

“I don’t—”

“Peter, you can’t keep protecting her!”

“It was an accident!” his eyes squeezed tight. “She didn’t mean it. Okay?” 

Ben scoffs, disdain coloring his tone, “An accident is bullshit, Peter; she’s clearly hit you more than once and you keep _defending her?”_

“She’s my mom!” 

“It’s abuse, Peter.”

The sudden silence the apartment is enveloped sends Peter into a tailspin. Head dizzy, eyes not focusing, stomach churning. Truth cleanses lies. He is saturated in grease, left to rot, and Ben’s softly delivered statement is the first bucketful of clean water he has been faced with in weeks. Months, perhaps. 

First time Peter thought it was a fluke. A bad bender and Peter being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Parker luck. 

First time Peter talked himself into believing it was an accident. She hadn’t been in her right frame of mind. He hadn’t forgiven her immediately and held onto his trepidation. He had been tentative. 

Now it all rushes him like an unleashed waterfall and he’s drowning in truth. 

Exhaustion keeps him from speaking but Peter holds out in his arm in clear invitation to take pictures. 

Peter sits as Ben moves silently around him. 

Eventually Ben shepherds Peter into his winter coat, flaying and with finicky zippers, bundling him up like he’s half his age, but Peter’s passive right now and craves the kind fingers. He wants to reach out and give Ben a hug. So he does, his forehead against Ben’s sternum and two strong arms tugging him closer. 

He breathes. 

Outside is breezy. He smells snow in the air and the wind whips heavily. Ben brought the Focus so he must have been off today. 

Inside the car he wonders, “Where will I go?” 

“We’ll work it out.” Ben soothes. “We can give Tony a call.” 

“My phone isn’t working,” he admits, turning his body in Ben’s direction but keeps his gaze out the driver side window. 

“So we call from mine.” 

Ben indicates and pulls out onto the road. 

“Can we do it later?”

“So long as we do it, I don’t mind if it’s after we get to the police station.” Ben nods, sparing him a glance before shifting his attention where it belongs. “He needs to know, Pete.” 

All Peter’s secrets are loosening quicker than unwinding thread bound together. Nobody thinks he can take care of himself. 

He can. He _has_ been doing just fine.

Silence hovers over them during their trip, Ben’s radio turned down too low for non-advanced ears. His wrist had flicked as if to shut if off completely. Peter forces his attention to remain on passing through Queens; catching sight of particular colors or people or textures as an effort staying present. 

“And of course there’s nowhere to park.” grouses Ben. 

Peter watches as the familiar precinct comes into view and the streets are packed with cars and pedestrians. Ben’s Focus creeps along the street slower than it had been until the precinct disappears. 

“We’ll go around, I suppose.”

Ben loops them back. 

They end up parking five blocks away from the precinct. 

“Fresh air will do you some good,” Ben chuckles as if Peter had complained. 

Generally he would have; Peter’s dislike of the cold is no secret. Instead he huddles further into his jacket and pops his hood over his head, following a few steps behind Ben on their walk toward his precinct. 

Three blocks away they are rounding a corner when Peter hears an engine rev nearby. Its flashy noise is too much for him to pinpoint exactly but as it zooms closer and closer, Peter realizes it must be headed in their direction instead from behind. 

“Ben?” he calls out. 

His uncle responds, turning left until he’s halfway to facing Peter. 

An old, navy blue modeled sports car zooms down the street, tires screeching, exhaust blowing heavily out its pipe. Peter turns away from the car and attention back on Ben. Of course he doesn’t see the shooter. 

He does watch as three tiny bullets whizz by. Hears it, too. Sees as his uncle jerks back. Hears the car press the accelerator and peel away. 

Ben finishes turning to face Peter. 

Peter spots the hole near Ben’s clavicle first, eyes hyper-fixated on it as a blackish-red dot no larger than a fingernail grows to the size of a quarter then eclipses into the size of his fist. World sways beneath his feet and Peter fears he may have a kiss with the sidewalk. Uncle Ben stumbles backwards first, though, so Peter snaps forward, both crashing onto their knees as Peter reaches for the detective. 

“Ben!” 

His uncle struggles in his new position and somehow Peter ends up stretching Ben out along the sidewalk. His eyes rove Ben’s body, skirting the left clavicle, and he discovers two additional wounds now Ben is horizontal. One on his sternum, right where Peter had rested during their hug not thirty minutes ago, glugs sluggishly in comparison to his stomach. After every blink Peter watches as Ben’s gray issued NYPD hoodie slowly darkens into black. 

He has no idea what to do. 

“Pe— Pete,” it’s breathless and a plea and Peter’s gonna be sick. 

Hysteria vibrates him and this can’t be happening it can’t one shit thing after another and Peter’s gonna vomit he’s gonna get sick because nothing makes sense not since this morning nothing nothing at all not even Uncle Ben’s voice demanding his attention. 

A weak grip latches onto his wrist. 

Peter glances down, catching the gleam of Ben’s wedding ring. When he peers up at his uncle’s face, sweat clings to his forehead and brows and everything is loud again, louder than before, singing and screaming and beating him down. Peter can’t distinguish which heart is hammering in his eardrums, his or Ben’s, hammering away like an elementary-level band practice and blood bubbles, then dribbles down the left corner of Ben’s mouth. 

_Do something do something do something!_

“ _Ben!_ I— I can’t— I don’t know what—,” he collapses forward, clumsily applying pressure to wounds that immediately saturate his hands. Peter rolls his shoulders back. His jacket sleeve tugs up and Peter catches a glimpse of his banged-up forearm. “Stay with me. Please, please stay with me.” 

Around him are voices and heavy footsteps but none of it matters. Nothing matters more than his heavily breathing uncle beneath his shaking hands. 

Peter’s too focused on the calamity across his uncle’s upper body so he doesn’t notice when his eyes unfocus; he does hear his heart stop. No… that noise, that moment, Peter realizes will never go away. 

Because as much as Peter wishes his world stopped then too, it doesn’t. Heart constricts though keeps beating away _thump-thump-thump_ to the tune of Peter’s begs of _Ben Ben Ben._

He sucks in three breaths before someone is tugging him back, arms looped under his armpits so Peter has no choice but to comply, and he still cries out, twisting around to keep Ben in his line of sight, head shaking left and right, left and right, left and right. 

_No no no no no no._

Faulty reassurances trickle into his head but Peter doesn’t pay the officer who pulled him away any attention; treats them identically to every stopped passersby. He can’t look away; he absolutely _cannot leave Ben._ Ben has never given up on Peter so why would he give up on Ben? _He can’t._

They call time of death at ten sixteen. 

But Peter knew it came several minutes prior; his heart never started back up with resuscitation. Too many heartbeats slam into Peter like an underwater symphony; one missing heart stands out. Familiarity of a favorite cello player… gone. Strings cut and a bridge snapped. Life loses its melody and Peter has no choice but to join with the harmony driving him forward. 

Peter is ushered inside the precinct. 

They sit him down at Ben’s desk, family pictures staring back at him with frozen smiles, and none of their questions penetrate his fog because he wills picture-Ben come to life and he needs his whole focus. He knows several officers attempt communication with him. And yet…. Too many noises and yet Peter cannot distinguish them. He is inside a bubble. Here he wishes to stay, nothing can touch him, nothing is real, he simply… is. Breathes. Inhale and exhale. Eyes unfocused. 

He can’t ignore the pain in his chest. Metaphorical. Though it stings as if he has been mauled and doused in lemon juice. He vibrates as if electrocuted; as if he could inhale rainclouds and exhale his scream like lightning bolts striking a scorched earth. 

It comes and goes. Soon as his coherency lingers too long, Peter squeezes his wrist, clenches his jaw, and forces himself to zone out. 

Sergeant Meloni taps his forearm until Peter is slammed back into reality. Noises hit him immediately, pain flares in his arm, his stomach is in knots, and he whimpers. 

“Who can I call for you, kid?”

Who would Peter call after Ben? 

He blinks. 

Peter watches as the older man’s light eyes, a brighter blue than Pepper’s, widen and flick around as if debating on sharing information. Peter waits him out. 

“May is on her way,” Sergeant Meloni forms his words mindfully. “I— she’s asked to see him.” 

It hurts. Peter understands all the words left unspoken; that Sergeant Meloni’s implication is May won’t have time for Peter once she arrives. He’s stubborn, stays silent. He wants the older man to fill in the missing pieces for Peter, to spell it out and hold his hand. Because who is he going to call? Definitely not his mother; she is the reason they were coming to the precinct, after all. 

His uncle’s sergeant waits him out, too.

“My father,” he pushes out under his breath. Peter digs out his phone, pulls up Mister Stark’s contact information and passes over his cell. 

He doesn’t bother mentioning his phone doesn’t work as Meloni stands, pats Peter’s knee twice, then disappears back into his office. 

He stares at his uncle’s black computer monitor, ignoring his barely there reflection. 

Try as he might Peter wishes he could float on time. 

He needs to be lost again. With Sergeant Meloni’s departure, Peter cannot zone out properly. Murmurations filter inside his head. His uncle’s name on everyone’s lips. Flashes from earlier keep cycling. He breathes in water and exhales shards. 

It’s not real. 

He’ll never recover. 

He cannot decide which hellish reality of his is worse so Peter continues staring at the monitor and waits and waits and waits. 

“Peter.” 

He knows that voice. 

His head jerks left and Tony Stark is there, bending until he squats down at Peter’s level. Gentle hands cup his face. 

“Are you hurt?” 

He is but he shakes his head in denial. 

A thumb brushes along his cheek, igniting quick zaps of irritation. “Something happened to you.”

His tone is too soft, too kind, too invested. Peter may as well swan dive off a building toward the Hudson because he’s plummeting, he wants to go back under the water, but the man before him is making that damn near impossible.

“Wanna try again?” 

“It won’t get out of my head.” 

“What won’t?” comes the soft inquiry. 

“Everything. This morning. I….” Peter gulps in a breath, rocking in the seat but never losing contact with Mister Stark’s touch. “It was an accident. She didn’t mean it, I don’t think, but I knew he wouldn’t take it that way, _I knew it_ , and as soon as he saw my arm he— he wanted to come here and I really didn’t but I knew I should have so I told him yes and then he couldn’t find a place to park, I don’t know why he didn’t just park in his reserved spot; do you think it was because he wasn’t on shift today? But that’s weird. Right? He wanted to come here and report her and I agreed but it’s my fault. It was cold and we had several blocks to walk and everything has been so loud. So loud and I can’t think. I heard the car before I saw it. Dark blue. Shitty exhaust pipes and and and— I looked away. I didn’t see anything. Just the car. And I can’t get it out of my head; I heard it… I heard it. Have you ever heard a heart stop before? I didn’t mean it— I really, truly, honestly didn’t mean for it to happen.” 

“What happened this morning with Mary? You didn’t break your arm, did you?” Tony’s question is sharp, demanding all of Peter’s attention. 

He does not want to give it away. Breaths are coming out short, fragmented. Frustrated, his hands move to tangle and grip his hair but he doesn’t finish the motion. Blood. Caked on, dried blood and it hits him. 

Under his breath, “I heard his heart stop. It stopped. It… never started back up, resuscitation didn’t work.”

“Kiddo?”

It’s real. His heart explodes and clenches together and Peter tips forward, pauses, then lurches into Mister Stark’s arms. 

“ _Tony,_ he’s gone. Oh my god, _he’s gone!”_

Tony’s hold is firm, grounding. Peter burrows down and sobs, unleashing each crevice and every molecule of pain making a home inside his chest cavity. 

“Shh, I have you. I’m so, so sorry, Peter.”

It isn’t enough. 

“Let it out,” soothes Tony, chin tucking over Peter’s shoulder, “let it all out, Peter.”

He is unsure how long they stay there, crouched next to an empty desk and huddled together, Tony soothing him as Peter cries into his chest. Minutes or hours. Time isn’t his friend. 

Eventually, Tony nudges him gently, “Hey. We’re going to go home now, okay. Stand up for me. Shhh, it’s alright, I’m coming with you.” 

Peter latches onto Tony’s bicep, curling around the appendage like a starfish, and his bad arm gets squashed. He whines, not bothering to hide the noise, yanking his arm back to cradle it. Still he stays at Tony’s side. 

Car ride into Manhattan is… peculiar. Almost as if Peter has a concussion and his memories are not to be trusted. There’s silence and the soft crooning of classic rock. There’s a stream of sunlight and moisture on the windshield. Then they are over the bridge and parking the car and Peter can’t remember any of it. 

Tony opens his door for him. 

His head tips back, looking up at him silently. 

“C’mon, let’s get upstairs and cleaned up. Pep’s home, too; she’s made lunch.” 

When Peter continues to stay seated, Tony dips inside the car to unbuckle his seatbelt and guides Peter out of the car. 

Tony takes them into his building and up to their penthouse. Once inside his mentor continues down the hallway until they stand inside the master bathroom. His hands are washed delicately, Tony rubbing soap gently multiple times until the water stops running pink. Peter slips off his henley but it sticks to the white undershirt. Tony sees his arm, doesn’t comment, simply disinfects and wraps it. Then he disappears. Comes back with a huge hoodie he hands to Peter. Mindfully he slips it on and it engulfs him. 

Kitchen is bright. Pepper is a soft contrast, though. 

She sets down three plates of sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruit. 

“I’m not hungry,” he whispers, picking at his thumb nail. 

A hand lands on his neck, squeezing enough to grab attention and releases. “I’d like it if you ate something.” his mentor replies. 

They sit at the island. Tony and Pepper eat normally while Peter picks and tears apart his sandwich. He eats grapes, though, because they don’t taste like ash on his tongue. 

He sniffles. 

Next to him Pepper rubs his back. 

“Did you turn off your phone?”

“What?” He turns left, meeting Tony’s dark brown eyes. 

“I— early I tried calling you and it sounded as if it had been disconnected.” 

“It’s not working,” he admits. “Mom—”

“What’s wrong?” Pepper asks upon seeing the face Peter attempted to hide from Tony. 

“Mom doesn’t know.”

He gulps in air. 

“Hey, hey, easy there.” Tony’s hand claps his shoulder and their combined weight grounds him. “I’ll go call her. Alright? Try and finish at least half of that and I’ll be right back.” 

Tony disappears down the hallway again. 

He prods the destroyed sandwich. 

“Would you like something else?” 

He shakes his head at Pepper’s question, “No. Not hungry.” 

He watches her take all three plates to the sink, washing them out by hand. It’s normal. As normal as Peter has figured it out. Pepper likes to hand wash and Tony will hand wash only if Pepper is with him then otherwise he rinses and puts dishes in the dishwasher. Her motions are calming and he tracks her movements until Tony returns. 

“Here I’ve got a new phone for you.” Tony says, setting down a StarkPhone box on his placemat. “It’s all ready to go but it’s a new number, so you’ll have to text all your littles friends and tell them.” 

Peter takes in the box, processes Tony’s words, then blinks up at the older man. “Okay. Thank you.” 

Tony ushers them into the living room. 

“You told Mom?” he wonders as they settle on the couch. 

“Yep. You’re gonna stay here for a while. Sound good?”

He nods.

Peter zones out, eyes unfocused by the television mounted on the wall. 

“He’s really gone, isn’t he?” the words slip out, his mouth barely forming them properly. 

“Yeah… he is. I’m so sorry, kiddo.” 

His chest heaves. 

“It’s okay to cry.” 

Peter shakes his head, staving off the incoming onslaught. His lower lip wobbles and he bites down on it. 

Tony opens up his palm on the couch. 

Peter stares at it until it blurs. Instead of reaching out for the anchor, Peter shuffles around until he’s burrowing into Tony’s side and hugging the man too tightly. As Tony returns equal pressure, he lets go.


	9. Chapter Nine

Darkness swallows his bedroom completely, unnamed and unwanted. All his electronics are turned off, including his new phone charging out of reach on the opposite side of the room. His windows are blacked out courtesy of FRIDAY. Corners are invisible to the naked eye, softened and barely prominent to his own. Noises as stuffed out as they can be with headphones in place; Manhattan nothing more than muffled going-ons. Even his ever-active imagination is on standby. A fluffy comforter cocoons him and an incredibly soft pillow case kisses his cheek with every restless shift. His eyelids are heavy.

And yet Peter is still awake. 

Up until he was ten, Peter slept with a nightlight because he had been afraid of the dark. A kernel of apprehension occasionally sits inside his belly when the insomnia flares up like heartburn; when thoughts run away from him and he’s reminded of his own mortality, convinced he’ll die in his sleep unawares so perhaps if he stays up all night nothing will come and find him during sleep. Usually just the thought of it is enough to send Peter into a tailspin.

Not tonight. 

No, Peter wishes darkness would consume him wholly and absolutely tonight. Childishly hopes if he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough, he’ll get a do-over; start over by putting away the laundry before he went to bed, wake up and go to school and not— not get his uncle killed. Wake up and be down the hall from his mother instead of Tony and his fiancée. Perhaps even go back far enough to be with his uncle and aunt still, mother in rehab and his troubles only discovering what aftereffects he has thanks to a freaky spider bite. He’s grown up too quickly, burdened with adult problems and he is beginning to comprehend that he’s unequipped to handle them. Yet he can’t ever return to being a kid again; a normal teenager; all of it is out of his reach.

Peter’s a curse. 

So he stews in the darkness. 

Any other night boredom would have nudged his spine to do something. Instead he lays motionless. Despite a dimmer switch controlling his thoughts, they are cyclical enough where he cannot willingly give in to sleep. If he lays still, his thoughts become passing cumulus clouds, unworthy of note. He has control. 

Several times he jerks awake, jarred from memories or realization he hadn’t been as lucid as he would like. He toes consciousness’s line. He can’t fall asleep because if he does he’ll see Ben; but _not_ the way he wants to see him, oh no. 

Thus an unending cycle. 

“Peter.”

A hand running through his hair and call of his name startles him back into awareness. A sharp inhale and Peter starts forward, an indignant sound escaping out the back of his throat. 

“Shh, take it easy, sweetheart,” the female timbre is soft, comforting and Peter focuses on it. “I’m sorry; I did not mean to startle you.” 

As his heart rate settles back into some semblance of normal and he blinks away traitorous evidence of sleep out of his eyes, Peter peers up at Pepper. Her smile is gentle, barely a pull from her lips, but he doesn’t detect pity from her kind eyes so he relaxes back into his pillows. 

“I made scrambled eggs for breakfast,” she says. 

He nods. 

Her fingers massage his scalp, scratching with just enough pressure that Peter knows he will not willingly leave. 

“Where’s Tony?” he wonders, fighting against eyelids drooping. 

“On the phone in his office, I believe. He’s been pacing up and down the floor over an hour now,” comes her reply, an amused uptick curving one side of her mouth. “But I’m sure if you popped in, he’d get off and eat with us.” 

His brows furrow, not liking the suggestion. 

Pepper’s hand gives one last scratch and she stands off the edge of his bed, “C’mon, before it gets cold.”

He slips out of bed and trudges after her. 

Pepper leads him down the hallway, poking her head inside what Peter knows to be their shared home office space, and Peter hovers behind her, using her as a shield as he detects a familiar tempo lulling him into a daze. The adults’ murmurations underscore the beat and Peter sways. 

A hand closes over his elbow. 

Peter tugs away, heart in his throat. 

“Easy, hon.” 

He just jerked away from Pepper, Peter realizes, heart pumping vigorously and _swooshing_ all noises out of his eardrums. 

She reaches for him again, slower now, and Peter watches as she changes her mind. Instead Pepper points down the rest of the hallway and silently leads him toward the kitchen. A sliver of guilt festers in his empty belly, mixing with nausea, as Peter contemplates if she will become reserved around him. He didn’t mean to react like he did. He had no idea they had finished their conversation and Peter wasn’t expecting someone touching him. His throat closes. He hopes he hasn’t scared off Pepper because he enjoys her touches, soft and soothing. Or worse yet, Peter will be shipped back to his mother’s. 

He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. 

Security, yes. Stability and consistency, absolutely. 

All he wants is normalcy. 

Peter favors his right arm and shuffles to sit at the island. 

“How’s your arm?”

Pepper’s question throws him off. How does she know about it? Then, he remembers: Tony washing his hands and wrists before wrapping up his sore arm. “Um, no, it’s okay,” he goes for levity but his voice cracks and tears well in his ducts. He sniffs. 

_Stupid._

Pepper materializes and says, “I’m going to hug you now, okay?” 

Peter doesn’t question how she moved from the stove to the island without his notice but his head nods once and he falls into her embrace. She smells of coconuts and vanilla. _A bit like home._

Shoes scuffing proceeds Tony’s entrance before a second pair of arms envelope them from behind. Peter’s squished between the two adults, face hidden in Pepper’s neck, and he feels Tony’s chin settle atop his crown. He’s trembling, fighting back mewling noises as best he can when safety surrounds him completely. 

Breakfast grows cold. 

He never wishes to move away. 

“I’m going to invite your aunt May over here today or tomorrow,” Tony whispers into the void the three have created. 

His face scrunches, leaving behind a creased feeling across his face, “What? Why?” he croaks, moving his face out of Pepper’s neck to her shoulder to get somewhat of a better view of the older man. 

“Because I don’t think either one of you needs to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he protests, pulling back and pivoting around, “I have both of you.” 

But that isn’t what he wants to say. He’s a coward who does not wish to face his aunt, especially not having killed her husband yesterday morning. However accidentally. He could have stopped it; taken the bullets instead. _He should have done something._

He sucks in a breath. It’s nearing twenty-four hours now. 

“Hey,” a joint coo from both adults. 

“I think you need to talk to us, sweetheart.” comes from Pepper. 

He shakes his head, head tipped downward and staring at his socked feet. 

“I know it’s hard to open up, Pete,” Tony speaks next, followed up by his hand landing on his neck and giving it a reassuring squeeze before skating down his spine to splay across its center, “I know. But Pep’s right. You should probably talk about what happened yesterday.” 

A betrayal, that’s what it feels like if Peter confesses all. And so what if he’s being dramatic, Peter doesn’t care. How will he ever get the words out? Admit to being a bad son and an even worse nephew? White spots dance erratically before him. 

“Deep breaths.” 

Tony’s face fills up Peter’s vision and warm hands cup his cheeks. 

“I need you to listen to me closely. Can you do that for me? Peter,” his tenor holds an edge of urgency that grasps Peter’s focus, wary eyes blinking up into matching ones, “I promised you yesterday you’re gonna be staying here with me and Pep for awhile, didn’t I?” he waits for his nod. “I meant it. Okay? You’re stuck with me and I’m going to take care of you, but I need your help.” 

“My help?”

Tony nods, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his overheated cheeks. “Yes.” 

“We need your honesty.” 

His eyes flicker toward Pepper.

“Why?” 

“A couple reasons. You need to give a statement to Sergeant Meloni, but most important one is if you’re going to be staying here with me I need to know what’s going on with you. We’re a team, remember?” 

Peter takes a step backwards and Tony’s hands fall away from his face. 

Tony continues speaking, no doubt sensing Peter is about to kick up a fuss, “Full transparency from the both of us. Something your mother said to me raised several flags. Also, I know you didn’t go to school yesterday.”

Shivers race down the back of his neck, “Can’t.” 

Pepper nudges them forward until she motions Peter to sit on the couch. She takes the free seat next to him while Tony plops down on the coffee table, much to his fiancé’s consternation. Her scoff does not go unnoticed to Peter but Tony elects to ignore it. Her hand on his wrist is settling. Peter tries to situate himself into the corner of the couch. Tony leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and his gaze demands undivided attention. 

“What happened to your arm?” 

Peter shakes his head at Tony, averting his eyes. 

“Will you let me see it?” 

“It’s not that big a deal,” he deflects. 

Pepper’s fingers flex on his wrist, a fast squeezing motion and release, but its weight stays; grounds Peter in the present when he wants nothing more than to hide. He doesn’t deserve their kindness. Unease floats into his belly, tingling his toes while his palms grow clammy. 

“Did whatever happen while you were with Ben yesterday?” 

“No.” 

“Did it happen while you were at home?”

He gnaws at the corner of his lip. 

“I’ll take that as a _yes_ , then,” comments Tony, shifting around and Peter watches out the corner of his eye as the older man reaches a hand out to rest atop his knee. “Have you looked at it today? I want to know if it’s healing.”

His head jerks left and right, sharp and erratic. It ought to be healed up right now and he’s not keen to show off his weird abilities. Any lingering pain must be imaginative. Heat from the imaginary fire licked at his arm; tenderness from the pulsing memories. Nothing more. Peter heals quickly. He can’t explain away what had been an obvious wound Tony saw last night and why it’s at a later healing stage or why it’s vanished completely. Too many questions and Peter refuses to answer. If he _has_ questions to answer, then he’d rather steer clear of why he has advanced healing at whatever costs. 

“Will you please show us, Peter?” 

Peter doesn’t like denying Pepper. He doesn’t like telling anyone no, truthfully; but he is realizing telling Pepper no is a lot harder than anyone else whether because of her aura or something else he has yet to peg, Peter isn’t sure. It isn’t as if she’s intimidating in the sense he fears physical harm. No. Despite her independent and fierce personality, Pepper is kind. All he knows is Pepper’s in charge of this household and he doesn’t want to find out what saying no is like to her. 

So he decides maybe if he starts rambling both will forget their need to see his arm. 

“It happened yesterday morning, before I left for school,” he begins. At their nods, he sucks in a slow breath and continues, “I forgot— I forgot to do something for Mom and she got upset. It really isn’t that big of a deal. We fought. My phone died and I decided against going into school. And Ben— I mean, he showed up and asked what happened and then—” he can’t continue on without giving them a reason why. He walked right into it without thought. _Stupid, Peter._

Neither adult attempts to interrupt. _Truth it is,_ he supposes.

“She hit me. Mom did, I mean. Multiple times. That’s— my arm, that’s why my arm is banged up because she hit me. Our phones aren’t activated or whatever because she didn’t pay on time so I couldn’t have called anyone. And Ben— I mean, he got the call because he must still be listed as an emergency contact at school? I’m not sure really, he didn’t specify. We were going to call you,” quickly he glances up at Tony, meeting his eyes long enough to flinch back at several strong emotions prominent there, “he wanted you to know. After we reported her. Again. I just… wait. No, I changed my mind. I don’t want to report her… because it wasn’t that big a deal. She didn’t mean it. And I’m fine. Totally fine. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’m gonna stop you there.” 

Tony tips his chin up, his index finger staying in place. Now that Peter is meant to keep eye contact, he notes tears pooling in the older man’s. 

“Why are you crying?” he cringes back at the question, not having meant to speak it out loud. 

Tony stiffens then sniffs, though his position does not falter. “Because I am upset on your behalf. I lived with an abusive, alcoholic father and I _never_ wanted my own child to live in a toxic environment.” 

Pepper reaches out for Tony, too, and she connects them together: silent and sturdy. She reminds him of a lighthouse; maybe even like what the green light represented to Gatsby but… better. He shakes away the inconsistencies. _Focus, Peter._

Peter knows very little about his grandparents on Tony’s side, aside from what he’s learned from school and the media. Tony rarely talks about them and if he does it comes across reluctantly. All he does know is Tony grew up similarly to him. And in the middle of the spotlight. But the older man never directly references his parents outside comparing his youth to Peter’s own. Among all the drama of the last month or so, Peter’s glad he has not had that same experience and frankly cannot imagine it. 

“I’m upset because your mother and I have had several conversations about how I feel about certain situations and yet I find out she’s injured you. Laid her hands on you. Your arm may as well have been road rash when I cleaned it or at the very least as if you’ve been scratched and not hit.” Tony huffs, jaw taut. “And I’m upset because you’re upset, bud.” 

Peter closes his eyes. 

Tony wipes away his tear that escaped.

“We want what is best for you, Peter,” murmurs Pepper, “that’s it.” 

“Pep’s right. Let me— let _us_ help you.”

It’s reflex when it falls out of his mouth, “I can’t be helped.” 

He anticipates anger from Tony. His responses are automatic, like carved ruins along his brainstem, and Peter replies without thought. Gives into the urge to be honest. Nobody understands. Frustration simmers under his skin like an irate jellyfish and its one way he knows how to vent freely. If he’s frustrated, then they must be too… right? 

Except they are not. 

“Please don’t say that,” first comes from Pepper, her hand moving to tangle with his own. 

“That isn’t true,” Tony follows up, grip on Peter’s chin tightening. “Don’t say that because _we_ want you.”

“We can and _want_ to help you; but we need your cooperation.” says Pepper. 

Tony piggybacks off her, “You’ve gotta be the one; if you don’t want to press charges on your mother, fine. I don’t agree with it but it’s your decision. But I won’t let you go back to her. I absolutely refuse to allow you go back to her.”

“And where will I go?” 

Tony pulls a face. 

“You’ll stay with us.” Pepper reassures him when Tony stays silent too long, sparing a glance at her fiancé. “You are welcomed here. You have a home with us.”

“I won’t go with May?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes several times, buffering for words, then, “No. I’ve been suing your mother for joint custody but as of this morning I’m suing for full custody. We’ll have the grounds to do so with your testimony.”

He supposes he understands why he would not go back to May in this scenario. Had Tony been apart of his life earlier in the year, then Peter wouldn’t have spent several months with his uncle and aunt. Only the thought of not having May’s consistency… even now… Peter inhales shakily. 

“Hey,” whispers Tony, bending down to his Peter’s gaze, “I promise you that you’ll maintain contact with May. Okay? And I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you in the past. I wish you never had to go through all Mary’s bullshit. I _am_ here now, though, Peter, and I’m not going anywhere. You _do_ have a home here with us and I will explain it to you however often you need me to do so until it clicks.”

“Because we’re supposed to be a team,” he finishes. 

“Exactly. You will always have me and Pep on your side.”

His heart constricts. Tony’s conviction reminds him of Ben; of the uncle he’s leaned and relied on; of memories that remain and nothing else. Nothing new. 

“I wanna see May,” he whispers, hanging his head and palming his eyes to stave off the tears. 

“Let me work my magic,” replies Tony. “Until then, let’s go eat.”

 

* * *

 

Tony smooths out imaginary wrinkles from the suit jacket he helped Peter into moments ago, hands firm as they stroke down his shoulders to his wrists, once, twice, before making a circuit back to his shoulders to stay. Peter’s gaze is locked on the mirror inside Tony’s walk-in closet. His reflection is paler than usual and his borrowed outfit for the day makes him appear washed out. He also looks like a little kid playing dress-up in his father’s clothes thanks to too long sleeves hiding his knuckles. Surprisingly, Peter has an almost identically built body as Tony except, according to the older man himself, Peter favors Malibu-in-shape-Tony. Whatever that means. 

When Tony steps out from behind Peter and stands beside him, however, all he can see is the visage of how strikingly similar they are side by side. Every passing comment from his mother throughout the years comes back and it finally makes sense. Peter sees now what Mary has always saw. He may not have as deep an olive complexion as Tony or quite the same nose shape, but his mother inherited her father’s Irish fair skin and Peter tans easier than she ever has and her nose is long; he recognizes Tony’s eyes as his own, that’s not a new observation; their foreheads are both wide; then there is striking way both men hold themselves, shoulders blades pressed down and chest expanded out. Starks must have strong genetics because Peter finally looks in the mirror and sees a parent that looks like him. He favors Tony over Mary and it’s obvious. _He is Tony’s son._

And he can’t figure out why he’s hung up on the physical similarities right before they are leaving for Ben’s funeral. 

“C’mon, I told May we’d be there at noon.” 

He watches as Tony pats his shoulders and turns to leave through the mirror. 

He’s a shadow tagging along outside of his own body, an imposter, a fraud. Nothing more than a mirrored reflection. Hollowed out and numb. A nobody. 

Who is Peter Parker? 

“Peter.”

“Yeah, right behind you,” he says, meets his own gaze a final time, then turns to follow after Tony. 

“Don’t forget your overnight bag,” Tony reminds him once he emerges. “I mean you can forget it and I’ll drop it off to you later, if it happens; but Pep says I need to make sure you’re better about remembering than I am…,” he trails off, offering him a lopsided grin. 

Peter attempts to match it, though knows it must fall flat, and pushes out, “It’s outside my bedroom door.”

They exit Tony and Pepper’s bedroom, with Peter trailing behind. He’s searching for an appropriate headspace, alternating between zoning out entirely and retreating into himself when present. Tony matches Peter’s quietude. He picks up Peter’s bag and doesn’t try to hide how often he glances backwards to make sure he’s still being followed. His soft smiles never falter even though Peter does not have the energy to return them. 

Tony is everything Peter wishes he could be. 

Ben had been too. 

Pepper finds them at the elevator outside their front door. Her black dress and heels are not normal work attire and yet Peter can’t help picturing her heading into the office. It wouldn’t be unusual; Pepper has the tendency to be called in on Saturday mornings. Their descent is made in silence, but he is bookend by Tony’s and Pepper’s presences and it anchors him in the present. Concentrated and artificial heat of the enclosed space warms his cheeks while his hands are cooled by the metal bar he clings onto from behind his back. Their scents mix together: vanilla and coffee and expensive fragrances and a hint of motor oil. He’s beginning to associate it with safety, with _them._ It’s pleasant. 

“Black one on the left, Pete,” Tony calls out, voice carrying just enough to capture his attention. 

Peter redirects his path and climbs inside one of the less flashy cars in the garage, situating himself behind Tony’s seat. 

Ride is stifling silent. Pepper turns off the radio. Only noises inside the Audi are everyone’s breaths and heartbeats. Manhattan into Queens is somewhat muffled outside it, but Peter’s not worried about his enhancements right now. A car backfires and Peter flinches, knocking his hand against the door handle. Loud revving steals his attention and all Peter can see is the creeping old car with a faceless assailant gunning down his uncle. His chest tightens. Palms are sweaty and tears cloud his vision.  

Car pulls to a stop and Peter looks up. They have arrived at the funeral home. 

“You ready?” inquires Pepper. 

He replies honestly, “No.” 

“Then we’ll wait until you are,” says Tony, nonchalant. 

And they do. 

He will never be ready to go inside and face reality. First time to see May since before the accident. She had declined Tony’s Thanksgiving offer. Peter has talked to her once all week and they spent an entire hour crying. But he realizes that he needs to go inside and offer his aunt whatever support he can give her. 

“Let’s go,” he whispers. 

The funeral home is not crowded when they enter. He’d braced for it and it’s an odd let-down when he isn’t bombarded with noises and people milling around, searching for space, and offering condolences. 

“This way,” an index finger points left while another hand rests against Peter’s back, encouraging him to move out of the entryway. 

Aged beige carpet may as well have his feet hostage because Peter knows he can’t move forward. 

Tony supports him. 

As they meander further inside the parlor, Peter immediately spots which room belongs to them: an officer decked out in dress blues stands sentry. 

“I can’t,” it leaves his mouth as a plea. 

“You can,” Tony says softly. “We’re right here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re strong, bud; I believe in you.” 

Tony’s reassurances follow him until he fully enters the parlor. His eyes wander right and he sees a mahogany casket surrounded by flowers. Now that he has found them, the scents of flowers surrounding him overwhelms Peter. Next to the casket is May. He beelines for her. 

“May.” 

Her hair swings over her shoulder as she spins around and it’s at this time Peter realizes she had been conversing with Sergeant Meloni. Shame ought to settle in his belly at the interruption. It does not. Instead, he barrels right into her and her arms wrap around him until he’s settled under her chin. World isn’t as demanding and all he knows is May in this moment. 

For several days Peter has lived inside a wandering bubble, either zoned out or barely conscious, a loose thread inside an infinite galaxy. Troubles eating and sleeping and paying attention. Lost despite Tony’s and Pepper’s presences. 

Until this moment hugging Aunt May; something sweeps over him, perhaps a cousin of tranquility. He can’t pinpoint it and yet it tones down the world and Peter can breathe. He squeezes May around her middle. 

“Love you, monster,” her voice is muffled in his hair but Peter hears her loud and clear. 

As his heart crumbles inside his chest at her word choice, his shoulders hunch forward on his loud inhale. He opens and closes his mouth several times, waiting for his own confession to pour out, only strangled noises escape. 

May holds him tighter for a beat longer before she begins to pull away. Her hands frame his face, cold against his overheated cheeks. 

They are essentially the same height now. Peter’s eyes are directly locked on hers and she does not bother smiling at him. It’s odd at first because his aunt is warm and lively and snarky and full of energy. Whenever he sees May he expects a dry joke followed up by warm laugher. Then again Peter has never saw May without Ben. Not until now. 

May blinks once then her hands guide him forward until she can press a lingering kiss against his forehead. 

When she pulls back and drops her hands down to her sides, a shiver runs the length of his spine. 

Tony places his hand on Peter’s back without missing a beat. Peter leans back, desperately in need of the contact and reassurance and to shake off whatever feeling dances down his spine. On the precipice of floating off into the ether again, Peter wants to stay present. 

He floats for several beats, listening to Tony, Pepper, and May conversing quietly amongst each other; yet he can’t comprehend what is being said. Their voices soothe his soul as they wash over him. Until he glimpses the coffin and he stiffens. 

One step forward and Peter pauses. Determination drives him the rest of the way until he is at the edge of the casket and Ben comes into view. He gasps. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” May speaks from behind him. “You can touch him. He’s still Ben.” 

 _He isn’t though,_ his head screams. 

Peter reaches his right hand out. It can’t move beyond the casket’s lip. 

May presses next to him and she leans forward, hand gliding down Ben’s cheek. Peter’s eyes track the motion, torn between Ben’s drained complexion and May’s dark nail polish. Her fingers flex and Peter recognizes it as her soothing gesture. 

He inhales sharply through his nose. Cautiously, he reaches for Ben’s hand. 

Immediately he draws back. “Cold,” he pants, “he’s so cold.”

Peter’s eyes squeeze shut. Then he turns around too quickly, teetering and dizzy, before catapulting forward. Tony catches him. 

“He’s so cold.”

Only answer he gets is in the form of Tony massaging the base of Peter’s neck and running his fingers through curls. 

Eventually Tony turns him around and Peter blinks as they head toward the back of the room toward what may be the most uncomfortable sofa Peter has ever saw in his life. Hand on his back never falters until it moves to gesture for him to sit down. Peter sneaks a peek at Pepper where her heads indicates he should listen to Tony. Slowly, he obeys and both adults mirror him, sandwiching him on either end. 

Police officers and detectives and other personnel file into spacious room, trickling in steadily until all at once it is packed. Stench of flowers has not died down, but it is accompanied by body odor. Smells bring Peter back down. 

Straight ahead is Ben’s coffin and as it comes into focus, Peter watches as two cops swap positions standing guard and the two previous ones march away in sync. Their dress blues keep their uniformity and Peter struggles to differentiate them. All his years visiting Ben at his precinct means Peter no doubt knows the majority in attendance. Yet everyone’s faces are indistinct. 

Every fifteen minutes the guards change. 

When people come up to offer their condolences to him, Peter does not know how to handle their attention or how to speak back. He fumbles. Ben’s co-workers are short and to the point. People he has never met come up and start full blown conversations and Peter panics. After a while, Tony and Pepper take over his responsibilities. It will not occur to him until later, once he’s in bed trying to sleep, that perhaps if people came up to him because of who he sat next to all day. 

At one point Pepper stands from the couch, murmurs she will get food for the group, and leaves before Peter can protest his lack of hunger. He watches her until she disappears into the crowd, somewhere near the entryway. 

“Best not to argue with Pep,” Tony steals Peter’s attention back and when he glances at the older man he wears a hint of a smirk. 

He tilts his head. “She is kinda scary.” 

“She can be,” he snorts, shaking his head to hide his amusement. “But I meant you shouldn’t argue with her about food; she’ll always win.” 

Peter opens his mouth but before he can retort back, Tony’s standing up fluidly. 

“Hey, I’ll be right back, okay?” 

“What?” 

“I need two seconds then I’ll be back and explain to you.” 

And Tony is off, bobbing and weaving between patrons, before Peter has any time to protest his departure. 

Peter’s alone. 

But he’s fifteen; it’s not like Peter has never been alone before. Except… having Tony’s and Pepper’s presences had kept him focused. As panic creeps upwards from his heart into his throat, Peter imagines he is stranded in the Atlantic, deliberately attempting to tread water only to realize he cannot swim. He sucks in a breath, redirecting his gaze to keep people from making accidental eye contact. He can sit alone for five or ten minutes until Tony or Pepper returns. It’s not like he has never been to a funeral before (never mind the fact he had been seven at Grandad’s funeral and attached to his mother the entire time) so Peter can figure it out. 

“Hi, cub.” 

His neck cramps with how quickly he looks up at his mother’s voice. “Mom?” She sits down next to him and Peter shakes, at a loss for words. But he can’t keep silent. “What are you doing here?” 

“Where else did you think I’d be?” Mary’s brows furrow together as she reaches for his hands. 

He stares at their combined hands, eyes fixating on an inflamed scab near her left pisiform bone. 

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” 

His forehead scrunches at her apology. 

“No, baby; I am.” 

“I— I don’t want to talk to you right now.” his eyes flick away from their linked hands and he glances up to see if he recognizes anyone, to have a reason to stand up and move away from her. Tony, Pepper, May. Anyone. 

Except he spots a vaguely familiar form hovering awkwardly nearby. Peter centers on the man without a tie, dressed in khakis and a semi-wrinkly button down shirt, and it takes him a few beats before he places the man. André, his mother’s boyfriend. 

Infuriated, Peter turns back to his mother and spits out, “Go. Please leave.” 

“No. We need to talk.” 

“We really don’t.” 

Mary sighs under her breath before trying to tangle their fingers together. Peter doesn’t allow her, twisting his hand until they are no longer touching. 

“I’m sorry for what happened on Tuesday,” she starts, head craning as she tries to meet his gaze. Peter denies her the satisfaction. “Tony has refused to allow me to talk to you.” 

“Can you blame him?” 

“We need to fix it.” 

“No, we don’t.” 

“Look, I shouldn’t have done what I did. I can’t fix that. But I won’t lose you over it, Peter. Not again.” 

Fire unleashes in his bloodstream and Peter attempts to vent. 

“Hush,” his mother shushes him, leaning forward to place her index finger against his mouth. “Just hear me out please.”

He flinches backward, crying out, “Don’t touch me!” and scoots down the sofa further away from her.

“Okay, fine, fine,” she backs off and keeps her voice down, “but I need you to do something for me.” 

“No! I’m not going to do anything for you.”

“Peter. Please cub, just hear me out.” 

His hands shake in his lap. 

“I need you to delete the pictures.” 

Ice chills the fire rampaging through his nervous system. His shoulders jerk with a violent shake as he croaks out, “What pictures?” 

Mary raises her eyebrows at him. 

He shakes his head, then begins to rise. He _can’t—_ every instinct inside of him roars up in order to maintain the peace then wars against his need to stop the madness and yet grief holds him hostage. He needs to move. He is frozen in place. 

Her hand latches onto his wrist and yanks once to sit back down. 

He refuses. 

“Let me go.” 

“Peter—”

“Mary.” 

“May.” 

When he pivots to face his aunt, his wrist is freed from his mother’s grip. Peter shuffles away from the ancient sofa and his mother. Distance is exceptional right now. Then he steals a peek at his aunt. He pauses at the apathy painted on May’s face and tension she carries in her shoulders. 

“Peter.” 

A new voice calls out to him before anything between his mother and aunt unfolds. He turns to see Pepper paused behind him, a full plate in her hands. An unnamed emotion lingers in her blue eyes upon seeing who surrounds him, though its fierce quality soothes a shaken piece of him. He steps toward her. 

And ignores his mother’s calls behind him. 

“Let’s go find a place to sit and eat,” Pepper says gently once he is within arm’s reach of her, folding him into her side and she guides them further into the crowd of mourners. 

“I’m shaky.” he states after several beats, chin tucked onto his chest. 

“Okay,” she nods and cuts through a thick throng of people, unapologetic, as she directs Peter to sit down at an open leather-backed chair. 

He complies. 

Pepper passes off the plate. “Fruit first,” she points to the apples and grapes and bends down before him, maintaining a grip on the plate until Peter meets her gaze. “Natural sugar,” she smiles in explanation. “Are you okay?”

He shrugs, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry I was gone so long.” 

“Not your fault,” he answers. “Really, Pepper. I should be able to look after myself.”

She purses her lips.

Peter munches on an apple slice.

“There you are,” comes Tony’s relieved exclamation. “You moved?”

Peter’s mid-bite, jaw sore from chewing just the single apple slice, so waits for Pepper to turn around to reply. Only she doesn’t say a word. Both adults stay silent but whatever expression Pepper must have leveled at her fiancé, Tony must get the gist of everything due to his nostrils flaring and quick glance at Peter. Then the older man exhales slowly and motions for Pepper to sit next to Peter.

They return to their silent vigil. 

A hint of surprise circles through his head when Peter is not immediately bombarded with questions. Each time he attempts to ask, one of them softly orders him to keep eating until eventually he gives up, mindlessly popping whatever his fingers land on into his mouth. Achiness in his jaw doesn’t abate but the hunger in his stomach becomes prominent. He submits to repetitive motions, eyes searching out the room. He is too far away to see what becomes of his mother and May. He can’t pick out their voices overtop every other ones intermingling and it gives him a headache when he strains. So he munches on fruit.

Pepper tosses out his plate when he is finished eating and Tony stays planted by his side.

Guards keep changing. 

Crying and soft laughter carries through the murmuring. 

People come up to him and wish to share memories about his uncle. 

Once visitation ends, the ceremony begins.

“Why… why are we having both in one day?” he whispers to Tony once they settle into their seats in the front row.

“You mean visitation and ceremony, right?” questions Tony, who has angled his head down to speak in Peter’s ear, then continues with the answer once Peter nods, “Your aunt mentioned she didn’t want to drag it out.”

“It’s all—” he starts then trails off, vacillating between phrases on how to describe the pomp and circumstances surrounding him without diminishing its importance. 

“A bit much?” 

He nods.

“Funerals can be,” he agrees. 

Peter keeps quiet, not interested in attempting to explain how noises and smells are his main catalyst against this particular one.

He wishes he could skip through the ceremony. His stomach hurts, from nerves or food Peter can’t tell, though the pressure situates itself behind his navel. Too many speakers go on and on about what a wonderful man, solider, and detective Ben had been. He zones out somewhere in the middle of it all, eyes drawn to Ben’s official detective picture taken by the city and Peter can’t handle listening to his aunt’s hiccuping breaths at the other end of the row. 

There would not be a funeral if it weren’t for him. 

“C’mon,” Tony nudges him. “We’re off to the cemetery now.”

Peter blinks once, twice, and as Tony comes into focus his words process. “Am I riding there with you?”

“Yes,” but the older man is distracted, peering over his shoulder in search of someone, “but I can ask May if you want to ride with her?” 

Peter shakes his head but Tony still has yet to turn back around. “No,” he says instead, “I’ll ride with you and Pepper.”

Once outside, Pepper leads them toward their car and Peter slips into the backseat. Car rides are becoming something he wants to avoid despite knowing how stupid and irrational is the blossoming fear. Both adults murmur up front. He does not pay them any notice. He catches his mother’s name thrown out once or twice and ignores Pepper’s unsubtle backward glances at him.

He isn’t expecting a final send off with seven armed officers once they arrive, though he realizes it is custom. Everything about the funeral today has thrown Peter off his rhythm. Flowers, an abundance of police officers, his mother, and now a formal send off. 

“Can we stand?” he asks Tony as they creep closer toward the tent. 

“Sure.”

They stand at the back.

After May is given an American flag by Sergeant Meloni and Ben’s partner Henry comes three rounds of seven guns firing. Peter jerks back in surprise at the noise, bowing his head to hide how its echoing consumes him. Two sets of hands drop on either end of his coat covered back. As tears follow, warm against his cheeks, Peter turns to hide in Pepper’s coat. She shifts until she holds him securely.

“I’ll be right back.” 

Tony’s footsteps tread off, getting lost in the crowd, and Peter has no clue where the older man is headed and he isn’t curious enough to ask.

Pepper sways side to side and Peter leans into her, giving her more of his weight than he would normally. 

A large hand cups the back of his head before Tony says, “Let’s head back to the car.” 

Peter pulls away from Pepper, spinning around to stare up at Tony, “I thought I was going with May?” 

“You were,” he sighs. “She asked to reschedule.” 

“No,” he whispers, shifting around both adults in order to see inside the tent better. “She said it was alright when he talked— I don’t….”

He can’t find May.

“She said she’ll call you later, kiddo.”

Peter whips back around to face Tony and Pepper, eyes filling up, “I don’t understand.”

“She didn’t give me much of an explanation,” continues Tony, voice pitched low. “She said she needed space.”

Sincerity lines Tony’s expression, his own gaze locked on Peter.

“Ready to go home?”

Dazed, he nods.

Back at the penthouse, Peter slips into his bedroom, ignoring Tony’s and Pepper’s soft calls of his name, and immediately sheds off his borrowed clothes once he locks the door behind him. He hadn’t bothered making his bed after waking so he crawls atop the mattress and hikes the comforter around until he’s cocooned. For once in his life his brain isn’t a hubbub demanding his undivided attention. Everything is eery like nighttime on an abandoned sidewalk, whispering of wind and inhales and exhales of his own breath.

It isn’t until the wall becomes darker and blurry before Peter realizes he’s crying. His cheeks are stained. His hands are entangled with his blanket so he nudges at his shoulder to dry one side. Nothing works. Peter is tainted.

Curls up tight and Peter lets go, crying in earnest and prays for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chappy was the definition of struggle bus city central lol 
> 
> can't express my gratitude enough when I get kudos and comments for you <3 I love you all!!!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. I know I don't really have a set posting schedule for this story and no apologies on that end. BUT it feels like forever since I've posted only because I shared two different one-shots and it felt like forever getting back into this story. Hopefully it doesn't come across like I struggled the entire time writing it??? and if it does... oopsies? 
> 
> come scream with me on [tumblr](https://ardenskyedarcy221b.tumblr.com)  
> 

His phone screen lights up with in an incoming text. It’s Ned, filling him in on his time away from New York visiting his father’s family in Hawaii. He’d text him briefly to let him know he got a new number and nothing further. He’s a horrible best friend because he has essentially been ghosting Ned ever since his initial text. It isn’t, however, who Peter wishes would text him. Another buzz forces Peter to pull the phone off his chest and he opens up the conversation.

 

**Fam visits are nice and all but beaches in November are better.**

**I asked Mom if we could leave Ari behind**

**She said no**

**Which… fair, I guess. Still worth a shot.**

**Jet-lag sucks, too, in case you were curious.**

**Not looking forward to making the trip to Philippines for Christmas.**

**Anyways, enough about me: how was yours???? We’ve barely spoken!**

**I have to know: does Iron Man make turkey or filet mignon?????**

 

Despite simmering in a cloud full of grief and self-loathing, a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth rereading his best friend’s texts. Only now worry lingers as his fingers dance around his keyboard because he has no idea how to break the news to his best friend. Ned left for vacation Tuesday afternoon so he wouldn’t have known about any of the drama Peter’s been gifted over the last few days. He contemplates if he should reply chronological or just hit Ned with his news.   
****

**Umm… I had a shit break, dude.**

**Ben’s dead.**

 

 ****Blunt honesty for the win. Peter stares at the last text, eyes going crossed eyed after a bit.

His phone buzzing with an incoming call jars him back. It’s Ned.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” his best friend shrieks as soon as Peter connects the call. “Please tell me that’s a shitty ass typo. _Peter.”_

“No,” it ends up sounding as if Peter is being strangled as he inhales sharply. “No, it’s not.”

Immediately both boys are crying.

“Oh God,” Ned breathes, “are you at your mom’s right now? Where are you?”

His eyes squeeze shut, “No— Ned, I’m fine.” 

“You’re _not._ I know you can’t be, Pete.”

He shakes his head back and forth, back and forth, clutching onto his phone for dear life. Refuses to answer but not wanting Ned to hang up on him.

“Does this have anything to do with your new number?”

Reluctantly he answers, “Yeah.” 

Background noises consist of Ned sniffing then tracking down his mother to ask her to take him to Peter. 

“Where are you?” 

“In Manhattan, I’m at Tony’s penthouse.” 

“Text me his address.”

He does as soon as they get off the phone. 

“Hey, FRIDAY? Will you tell Tony that Ned’s on his way over.”

After a brief pause, which he assumes the A.I. relays his news, she returns, “Boss appreciates  you informing him, Peter.”

Ned shows up within the hour, slipping inside Peter’s bedroom and shutting the door back, and takes one look at him before Peter catapults upward and rams into his friend. 

There’s just something about telling your best friend that makes the truth final, which feels somewhat backwards, truthfully, especially since seeing Ben inside a casket certainly cemented it. Now it’s as if the veil has been lifted and reality rushes inside straight for him, ready to drown him, and Peter has no say in the matter: Ben Parker is dead. 

“Peter.” 

It’s the only sentence between them. Ned doesn’t ask questions. Peter can’t find the will to talk about it, vibrating with grief’s tsunami. They stay embraced until Peter’s knees give out and they plop down on the rug. 

Everything tastes like ash on his tongue. Yet his vision is full of color, full of life: the bright blue of his rug they sit atop; the white of a misplaced sock underneath his bed; a hint of red ringed against the power button on his PS4; Ned’s skin tanner than before he left last week. Peter breathes in death and breathes out life. His head spins, twisting his vision momentarily in spots and flashes. When his vision clears his chin is still hooked over Ned’s shoulder but his head feels detached from his body. Perhaps it’s the headless chicken syndrome he’s been curious about since childhood. As odd as it is a part of him realizes it would make sense because a piece of him is missing and he’ll never get it back; so it may as well be something important, something meaningful, and something he can’t come back from—like his head. Peter sucks in air and his lungs expand and expand and expand and his thoughts come back online, hissing and buzzing, and he knows he’s whole. Broken and damaged, but whole nonetheless. 

The question comes, unavoidable in the face of tragedy. 

“What happened?”

Peter pulls back, avoiding Ned’s gaze, and sighs. “Well,” he starts. 

And he tells Ned everything; spares no details. His throat closes. Snot fills his nose until he can’t breathe properly and he pants out his mouth. He can’t hold Ned’s gaze for more than twenty seconds at a time. His neck cramps because of how he’s holding his shoulders. It feels as if every heightened sense has congregated at his temples. Still, he shares all. 

After he finishes, Peter braces for questions. He isn’t quite sure what will come out of Ned’s mouth first, some variation of _what happens next?_ Peter anticipates. 

Instead his best friend pulls him in for another hug and Peter goes willingly. 

Peter can handle silence. 

A confession slips off his lips, “I wanna see her.”

Ned yanks away immediately, “Your mom?” he attempts forcing eye contact but Peter dodges away so his friend then hisses out, “Peter?! Are you insane?”

“She’s my mom!” he defends, bristling at his friend’s indignant tone, crossing his arms across his sternum.

“Who just beat the shit out of you!”

“I still love her! I can’t just turn it off when she does something shitty.” 

“Um, you can do exactly that. Peter, _you have to do it.”_ Ned presses as he still tries to meet Peter’s gaze. “I can’t stand to see you hurt because of her. Your dad—”

He recoils. “He’s not my dad!”

“What?”

Peter clenches up, his face squeezing and his fists curling. 

“He’s doing all the stuff my dad would do for me in the same situation, Peter. I don’t understand— I know I’m not in your situation, and frankly I’m glad I’m not in it—I’m sorry, I’m sorry!— but Mister Stark cares for you. Dude, if my mom ever hit me or Ari the way yours has repeatedly hit you? My dad would lose his _shit_. Mister Stark doesn’t want— look. I can’t speak for him, but it seems like Mister Stark isn’t trying to ruin your life or whatever fears you’re harboring that you refuse to share with me— it’s called good parenting, Peter, what he’s doing for you, what he and Miss Potts are both doing for you. 

“I’m just sorry you’ve never really had the opportunity to recognize it.”

Peter curls his knees to his chest and buries his head in the space between, mumbling out, “I’m confused.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“She hasn’t always been a bad— she hasn’t always been like this.” he steals a peek at his friend.

Ned sighs, “I know. I always thought she was the cool Mom, y’know?”

He huffs out a tired acknowledgement. Oh, does he know. His mom had always been young—twenty-four when she had Peter—and cool and hip and all his friends in elementary school loved coming to his place because his mother wasn’t as strict as the others’. It always seemed as if any potential friend just wanted to hang out with Peter for his mother. But then middle school happened and Peter never got popular and Ned became his only friend and he never really worried about it anymore. It never left him, though. 

So Peter tries to change the subject. “It’s weird that both my parents are cool and I’m not.”

Ned narrows his eyes. “I mean, _yeah,_ having Iron Man as your dad is badass but you’re cool.”

Peter gives his own deadpan expression.

“You’re Queens’s Spider-Man.”

“I’m a nobody.”

“But you’re _not_ , Peter! You aren’t a nobody. You’re my friend.”

Peter closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Ned starts, “don’t apologize. I’m sorry because I shouldn’t have pressed you the way I did just now. You’re— I get upset when you hate on yourself. S’all.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Do you… why did you deny Mister—”

“I don’t feel like talking right now,” he cuts off the other teenager, shooting him a somewhat-apologetic look. He doesn’t want to be rude but all his energy has been sapped and that conversation would take more than Peter is willing to give.

His friend reluctantly nods. Then Ned scoots until he is shoulder to shoulder with him and they sit back against Peter’s bed frame in silence once more.

Honestly he has not thought about Spider-Man in what may as well be a lifetime. Now, however, he has an idea.

***

Peter’s going to sneak out.

Well, the plan is to sneak out but it goes nowhere further than get-passed-Tony-and-Pepper. Not that he’s a prisoner in their home. It’s just… Peter wants to see his mother. Tony has been accommodating him since Peter arrived. It had been tinged by awkwardness at first but longer Peter reflects on it and realizes Tony didn’t have to do anything he has done… it settles in Peter’s chest like warmth during an extended hug. Tony tells Peter to ask for anything. He is still adjusting.

Yet he knows he can’t ask to see his mother. 

It’s too soon.

Now he has to figure out when is the best time to sneak under Tony Stark’s radar. Easy, excellent. Peter has always appreciated a true challenge.

With midterms on the horizon Peter reluctantly goes to school the next morning. Tony had offered to call the school and explain Peter’s situation but the teenager wanted nothing to change. Truthfully it hadn’t been an easy decision. Three weeks left of school are critical time; Peter promises himself he’ll mourn once break starts. So his mentor allows him to leave the penthouse and Peter takes the subway into Queens because it gives him a longer commute.

He uses the extra time to plot.

At school, he struggles. His focus is all over the place and has worst reception than cell signals in the boys’ locker rooms outside of the gymnasium. His notes are incomplete in all his classes. He passes a quiz in Spanish. He zones out on Ned at lunch. His life has changed and yet Midtown stays the same.

Not wanting to alert Ned that he’s heading farther into Queens instead of Manhattan, Peter ditches his last period class ten minutes before the final bell and heads towards his mother’s apartment.  

 _Crazy how a week changes a life_ , Peter reflects as he bundles up and keeps his head down as he walks first off school grounds then toward the subway station. Last Monday Peter and Ned walked home together. Forest Hills has always felt most like home to Peter.

Now he feels lost and bereft.

Peter isn’t a hundred percent positive if his mother will be home. Her schedule has been erratic lately and honestly his brain cannot possibly drudge up something as mundane as his mother’s working hours. He mixed up third and sixth periods today. Still, he is train bound for Elmhurst and not changing course.

His leg bounces up and down the entire trip. He ignores a couple disgruntled glares and starts drumming his fingers on his knees. If he stays still, he’ll burst, he knows it.

Peter takes an early stop. Perhaps walking the final distance will lessen his jitters.

It does little to ease him. 

As Peter enters the building, fidgeting with his keyring, he squeezes his eyes closed and prays he will not walk in on his mother having sex. He shudders at couple recollections that flit quickly into and out of his head. He’d almost rather catch her at literally anything else. 

Apartment is empty. 

“Huh,” he breathes into the kitchen’s space. Like every other aspect of his life, their apartment hasn’t changed. Peter glances around expecting to see massive changes. Walls are still beige and the third chair at the kitchen table still is pushed out farther than the others.

His stomach knots when his gaze settles on the sitting room. 

Then a picture frame grabs his attention and a piece of him eases. Without noticing it his feet take him toward the new-to-them entertainment center, bypassing the television and small movie collection, and he feels himself smile upon seeing one of the three picture frames settled on the top most shelf. On the left is a silver frame that protects one of Peter’s favorite pictures from his childhood: a younger Peter has his cheek squished against his mother’s. Both are sporting wide, cheerful grins and Peter’s even missing a front tooth. It had been the day of Peter’s seventh birthday and they were posing at the front gates of the zoo.

Peter shakes his head then shuffles down the hallway into his bedroom. There’s been a few things he has missed and he doesn’t feel like going without his suit any longer. So he packs a small black duffle bag half-full and sits on his unmade bed, staring off into space. 

Thirty minutes pass. 

Mary loved taking Peter to new places around town as he grew up; they couldn’t always afford going on destination vacations, so they made do with exploring the boroughs around them. Best place for pizza is in Brooklyn, but best sandwiches are in Queens hands down and no questions asked. Before Grandad Jack passed away, they visited New Jersey often enough and he had a yard that Peter loved playing in, though his memory is spotty because Grandad died not long after that zoo picture had been taken. 

An hour passes. 

He hates his bedroom here, he realizes as his eyes flit around the corners. It’s empty. Whenever they had to move as he grew up, his mother made it her mission to decorate Peter’s bedroom. Glow in the dark stars on the ceiling when they lived by Ben and May. Or that time when Peter was really into following the Mets and she framed trading cards so he could display them proudly. Small stuff wrapped in love.

When it creeps closer to six, Peter’s cell buzzes in his pocket.

He ignores it.

Though it isn’t too much longer than Peter gives up seeing his mother as a bad job. His belly remains questionable. Slowly, Peter stands; shoulders his backpack and clutches the duffle’s straps until his knuckles whiten. 

He locks up and takes the stairs. 

Peter pulls out his cell phone once he’s outside, ignoring the text message, and immediately pulls up his call log. He contemplates calling his mother but dismisses it. It’ll probably be better to see her first than talking. He tries Aunt May instead. 

Only she doesn’t answer and it rings and rings and rings until voicemail.

Decision made for him, Peter finds a deserted alleyway and changes into his suit. His ankles are not covered and it’s tight in the chest now but he does not care. He stuffs his clothes and duffle into his backpack, double checks how much fluid he has and calculates the distance, and Peter thwips upward as he swings home. 

Freedom is exhilaration on his tongue and air whistling in his ears. He’s missed being Spider-Man. Why did he ever allow his priorities to shift?

When Peter enters the penthouse, Tony is waiting for him as he sits at the island with a StarkPad.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi,” he returns and goes to head down the hallway for his room. 

A hand stops him. He didn’t hear the other man stand up and stop him. Peter steals a peek at the hand on his shoulder.

“I sent you a text.” 

“Sorry, didn’t check my phone.”

“How are you doing?”

Peter sighs then turns to face the older man, “Dunno. Needed air.”

Tony runs a hand through his goatee. “I don’t mind you needing air but it would have been nice if you had told me.” 

His shoulders slump. 

“C’mere,” Tony jerks his chin and goes to sit on the couch.

Peter follows, shrugging off his backpack and leaves it on the floor at the back of the couch. His stomach tightens and Peter wonders if he’s in trouble. His eyes land on his lap the moment he sits down. It was only a matter of time before Tony would discipline him.

“You need a break.” Tony says simply. 

Peter jerks up and lets out an unintelligent, “What?”

Tony continues on as if Peter hadn’t spoken. “I can appreciate you not wanting to miss school this close to midterms though it doesn’t change the fact you need a break.”

“Oh-kay,” he drags the word out, tilting his head to parse out what the other man is thinking.

Tony smiles at him, soft and genuine.

Corners of his mouth tick up.

“Ever been to England?”

“What? No. Um, what’s in England? Do you have a business trip or…?”

“I could always turn a trip business related, but no there isn’t one planned.” Tony clarifies. “My aunt lives there and I’d really like you to meet her.”

“You have an aunt?”

A soft chuckle predates Tony’s response, “Godmother, technically, but you get the point.”

His eyelashes flutter several times as Peter processes. “What is she like?”

“A badass.”

A surprised noise puffs out of Peter’s mouth that must be a laugh. When Peter continues sputtering Tony takes pity on him and carries on as if Peter inquired further. 

“She was buddies with my father during the war. Don’t let her age fool you, though; she’s as sharp as they come.”

Peter nods.

“Spring break might be a great time to visit.”

“Why so far out?”

Tony shifts around until his back is against the armrest. “We can go whenever,” he shrugs, but his gaze is sharp as he stares at Peter enough to make the teenager squirm. “Did I assume incorrectly that you wouldn’t want to miss school?”

“No,” he relents.

“We don’t have to make plans now if you want time to think on it. No decision timeline or anything fancy and particular. Take all the time you need, Pete.”

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Tony leans forward and pats the area just above Peter’s knee. “Have you eaten dinner?”

“No.”

“I haven’t either. C’mon,” he stands fluidly, “let’s make something. Just us tonight because Pep has a meeting until ten.”

Peter pulls a face at the news but trails the man into the kitchen. 

“What are you feeling?”

“Ummm.”

“Steaks? Stir fry? Chicken wraps?”

“You eat wraps?”

“Yeah, I’ll eat just about anything so long as my lovely fiancée isn’t around harassing me to eat healthy.”

“Stir fry sounds good,” he admits after a couple beats. 

Tony has to direct him where to find the red potatoes. Otherwise between the two of them they pull out all ingredients and get dinner started. Chicken is thawed out already. Peter is in charge of chopping and Tony mixes everything together while FRIDAY bosses them around to make sure they don’t miss any steps. Less than forty minutes later dinner is ready.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Cutlery bumping against dishes and the occasional plopping sound of a cup being set down along with quiet breathing. 

“Do I have to pawn all your game consoles to get you to talk to me?”

Peter zeroes in on Tony, who wears an impish expression, at the proclamation. “Um,” he bites on his bottom lip, rolling around as he gathers his thoughts.

Tony’s amusement vanishes as it morphs into something soft. “I— I’m kidding. I hope you know I wouldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he cuts the older man off before he can gather momentum to ramble. Then he forces a laugh. 

Tony handles it well and offers up something more authentic with his chuckle. “How’d you do in your classes today?” 

“Struggled pretty much all day,” he goes for honesty after shuffling around a couple pieces of broccoli.

“This morning’s offer still stands.”

Peter huffs out a breath, “I appreciate it. Gotta get used to it again sometime, don’t I?”

“Sure,” Tony agrees then takes a sip of water, “after you have time to readjust.”

Peter shoves a forkful of chicken in his mouth to keep from replying.

“Just don’t do what I did,” Tony breathes out. 

“What’d you do?” he falls for it, though his curiosity directs him to meet Tony’s open expression head on.

A ghost of a smile, “Didn’t allow myself time to heal or feel and became an alcoholic in the process.”

“You don’t have to worry about that… with me, I mean,” he picks at a hangnail but mostly maintains eye contact.

“I’m glad I don’t.” Tony nods as tiny uptick pulls a small, though genuine smile. “You’re a good kid, Pete. I hope you know it.”

His stomach fills with swirling warmth. His cheeks heat up and as it spreads Peter turns his attention on his twisting hands in his lap than be Tony Stark’s sole focus. He knows the older man’s compliments are rare, though slowly becoming as common as stars in the sky: present even when they are not noticeable and a comfort all the same.

Before Peter allows silence to swallow them whole once more, Tony changes the topic.

“I’m anticipating a mixed reaction from you.”

“About what?” 

“Custody arrangements.”

“Oh-kay,” drawls Peter. 

“I heard from my lawyers today,” his mentor prefaces and something heavy sits in Peter’s belly. “We’re expected to hear back from a judge no later than the end of the week.”

He mouths _the end of the week_ a couple of times as his brain processes. He thinks about playing dumb and asking Tony to clarify, though he does not imagine the other man will humor him. Tony knows Peter’s intelligent. His brain formulates half-formed questions then quickly discards them. Eventually, he asks,

“What could happen?” 

“Well,” the older man takes a slow breath in, “a couple of things. I’m suing your mother for full custody.” he starts simple and doesn’t include the _after last week_ but they both understand the reference. “You’re still uncomfortable testifying against her?”

Peter nods, sucking in his cheeks at the minuscule amounts of heat lying underneath Tony’s tone. It could be Peter’s overactive anxiety, but the teen doesn’t think so.

“The pictures, I’m reassured, ought to be enough to award me full custody. If worse comes to worst, she’ll get weekend visitations.”

His jaw sets at Tony’s vernacular. 

Tony notices and questions, “What?”

Not wanting to start an argument nitpicking word choices, Peter redirects, “Why would it be so bad if Mom got me on the weekends?”

“Peter.” 

A flush creeps over his entire body so his gaze drops back down to his lap. “She’s my mom.”

“Bud…,” exhales Tony. “I get it. I understand what you’re going through. But she _hurt_ you and I will never tolerate that bullshit. If anyone hurts my kid, I’m going to have a fucking problem about it, and yes that does include your mother.”

Peter puffs out his displeasure.

“I’m not going to keep you away from her forever, Peter. Time apart, I feel, will benefit you more than anything else. You need time to heal and focus on yourself.”

 _Feels like it’s permanent,_ he thinks petulantly.

“Boss, Secretary Ross is calling.” FRIDAY informs from all around.

Tony growls in displeasure, slipping his phone out of his pocket and glaring at the screen. “Put him on hold; kinda busy right now, FRI.” 

“Your wish, as always, is my command.” 

Peter’s jaw loosens in slight amusement hearing the A.I.’s programmed snark. Then he remembers he’s meant to be irritated and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Peter, look at me please.” 

He complies at Tony’s insistence.

“I can’t read your mind. I need you to tell me what you’re thinking so we can hash this out and be on the same page.”

“Why would it be so bad if I kept seeing her?” he begins. “I still wanna see her.” 

“Try _she hit you and I don’t trust her._ Is that concise enough?”

“She raised me.” 

Tony’s eyebrows crinkle his forehead in surprise and immediately Peter’s stomach twists into knots because he had attempted to project blunt honesty and it ended up sounding blasé and critical of Tony.

“No, wait—!” he leans forward, raising his hand. 

“You’re right, of course,” comes out stiff and formal from Tony, despite the informal word choices. “I didn’t raise you the first fifteen years, but that’s changing now, Peter. I’m here long term.”

Peter rushes to correct, “No. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s okay, bud,” Tony sighs his reassurance.

“But it’s not okay,” stresses Peter, “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

FRIDAY interrupts again, “Boss. Ross is insisting he speak with you due to an urgent matter.”

“Entertain him for sixty more seconds,” he heaves, gripping his left wrist.

Peter opens his mouth but Tony talks over him.

“I’m not mad at you.”

It does little to reassure Peter because generally when someone has said that to him they are genuinely mad and it fills Peter up with dread. 

Tony must notice a change in his demeanor because he repeats, “I’m not mad, Pete. And we’re not done with this conversation either. I need to go take this call.”

Not wanting Tony to leave when the air is full of tension, Peter asks, “Why is the Secretary of State calling you?”

“Avengers business.”

His mouth pops up at the news. 

Tony stands from the kitchen table and walks away. As he disappears toward what Peter assumes is the office space, the man answers the call. 

A part of him wishes to be nosey and listen in on the conversation, especially once Tony closes a door in search of privacy. If Peter thought earlier Tony doesn’t give compliments often, then he has to amend by saying he talks about the Avengers less than he doles out compliments. Instead there is a larger part of him that remains agitated from the conversation that was interrupted. He slumps in his seat, eyeing first their plates and then the kitchen before his eyes wander into the living area. He spots his backpack. 

Perhaps it is time to bring Spider-Man back into action.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow we're basically halfway through this story already??? someone pinch me. (please don't-- I bruise easy!) this chapter got out of control... just ask hailingstars who heard the whole spiel haha
> 
> no promises if chapter count is still accurate-- I'm like 95% certain it'll stay at 22. Chapters might start getting longer. Who knows? Definitely not me!!!!!!

Three weeks before midterms fly by in a blur. One minute Peter has study guides to fill out the next there’s an AcaDec competition and sneaking out to patrol and before he knows it midterms come and go. He also ends up with a bad case of the sniffles, torn between a runny and stuffed nose. He didn’t think he could get sick, what with the bite and all. Then again, he has noticed he is a lot more susceptible to cold weather now that December has rolled around. Peter does not think loathe is too strong a word for how badly he hates winter.

Besides the cold and semester’s end, Peter is Tony’s legal ward now. Or however the older man gaining full custody of him is meant to be classified. Weird, but whatever. 

On his last day of school, Peter finishes his exam and heads back to the penthouse before noon. He may have mentioned to Tony his exams could take all day so hence the reason he is walking home instead of being picked up. Ned still has another day of exams due to his schedule. Peter walks home alone, bundled up tight.

Once on the subway, he opens up his messages with his mother and checks to see if she’s responded back. In the last week, Peter’s text Mary off and on, slowly finding their new footing with each other. His mother hadn’t taken the custody loss well. His adjustment period has been peculiar, to say the least, though mostly Peter feels displaced. It isn’t that Peter feels as if he doesn’t belong, because Tony is clear on making him feel welcomed; it has more to do with the fact everything lacks permanence even in spite of Tony having full custody of him. He sends a text back to his mother and fiddles with his cell the remainder of the trip home. 

Tony and Pepper are both working when Peter arrives home so Peter drags his feet into his bedroom, shucks off his shoes and winter coat and drops his backpack and dives underneath the comforter. He isn’t moving any time soon.

Peter falls asleep.

He wakes up to a scalp massage.

“How’d Spanish go?” comes Tony’s quiet inquiry as Peter slowly blinks awake and a smile blooms across the older man’s lips when Peter nudges into his hand. 

Peter stills once he realizes he _nuzzled_ into the touch. “Um,” his voice is scratchy so he clears it, though he’s still focusing on his subconscious need for attention, brain slow and searching for words. “I finished it with thirty-some minutes to spare.”

Tony laughs under his breath and retracts his hand out from Peter’s curls, “Get bored since you didn’t have another subject to study?”

“Oh yeah,” he nods, stifling a yawn behind his palm. Then coughs. “I don’t know what to do with myself now that everything’s finished.”

“Sleep away the afternoon and get over your cold.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrow at the pointed tone. “I’m not sick,” he pouts.

Tony smirks and stands from the edge of the bed. “Let’s get some dinner in you. We made lasagna and Pep picked up that chocolate cake from a couple blocks over for dessert.”

Peter sits up in alarm. “What time is it?”

“After six.”

“Ah, man,” he groans, throwing his head back, “I slept all afternoon. I’m _definitely_ not going to sleep tonight.”

“Well, don’t fret about it now or you’ll work yourself up,” says Tony. “C’mon, food, kitchen, let’s go.”

Peter slips out from the covers, shivering immediately.

Before Tony can disappear out into the hallway Peter calls out,

“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it okay if I stay with Mom this weekend, on the sixteenth?”

Tony looks over his shoulder, an odd expression steeling his features, and it disappears by the time he fully turns back around to face Peter.

Peter offers an explanation, “I don’t really wanna go to the gala.”

A small sigh escapes from Tony as he stuffs his hands inside his dress pants pockets. “I figured as much and I wasn’t going to force you to go, Pete.”

“Mom suggested it and I said it would be okay,” he continues. “She asked me last weekend but I wasn’t ready.” 

“Are you?”

“Ready now?” he finishes and Tony nods. “Yeah, I feel more comfortable seeing her now than I did last week. We’ve texted.”

Tony tilts his head as he looks at him.

Peter doesn’t like the attention. “Please—”

“Fine,” the older man says, “but I’m dropping off and picking up, no arguments. Call her and set it up.”

“Wait, like, right now?”

Tony rolls his eyes, a strained smile pinching at the corners of his mouth. “Why not.”

Then the older man spins back around and disappears out of sight.

Peter lets out a gust of air he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding on to and sags against his pillows. His ceiling isn’t interesting to stare at but it gives him the opportunity to double check if seeing his mother this weekend is truly what he wants. Tony won full custody of him and technically his mentor is well within his rights to refuse Mary access to Peter. A part of him is surprised Tony okayed it despite the older man’s reassurances he had no plans on keeping Peter away from his mother for good. Then again, Peter will be the first to admit to being wishy-washy about seeing his mother. It’s been weird. His mom’s been his constant companion his entire life and suddenly not having Mary around has been like missing an arm or a leg. Weird. Peculiar and off-balance.

Now he feels like he’s doing alright with the missing limb, though.

Still, Tony didn’t have to give his permission.

“Maybe it has been long enough,” he says under his breath.

He sighs, sitting up and reaches for his cell. Quickly Peter scrolls to his mother’s recent text message response, noticing that she replied back almost five hours ago. He debates if he wants to call or text. In all honesty, as much as he’s complained about wanting to see her, he’s been avoiding her phone calls.

 _Text it is_.

He composes it rather quickly and rereads it once and sends it before he can change his mind.

Peter gets out of bed, leaving his cell behind, and takes the same path Tony did into the kitchen. He inhales as he enters, a dopey grin plastering across his face because he loves when Tony goes all out on Italian dishes. Once his mentor found out that Peter has a thing for pasta, specifically lasagna, the older man beamed.

“I’ll break out my Nonna’s recipe for you.” he had said, simple and casual.

“I always thought I got my love from Mom’s mom,” Peter replied and explained how his grandmother had been from Italy but never learned how to cook that well.

It’s nice to know more about his genetics, Peter decides as he wanders toward the table, shaking away the memory.

“Need any help?” he asks, voice coming out rough.

Pepper glances at him with a smile, “Hi, hon. You can set the table and bring over the Cesar salad if you’d like.”

Peter sets to it.

During dinner Peter regales Pepper with his exams since she’s been gone since last Friday on business in France. It’s simple back and forth for several minutes up until he turns the conversation back on Pepper as he inquires about France. 

Tony grins at him. 

Peter’s cheeks heat, “What?”

“Nothing,” the older man says, shaking his head.

“Tony.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

His stomach twists at the couple’s shared laughter. “I’ve never been out of the country before,” he keeps on speaking.

“You’re fine, Peter,” comes Pepper’s reassurance, her blue eyes sincere as she glances over at him. “I don’t mind the questions. Your dad’s just easily amused, no matter what he claims otherwise.”

Tony pulls a face but even Peter can see the playfulness beneath the expression. “She’s not wrong,” he allows. “And I like how many questions you’re asking, s’all."

Peter smiles, hiding it behind a sip of water.

“If you’re interested,” she begins, “either during your spring break or summer vacation I wouldn’t mind if you tagged along on some business trips.”

Peter blinks at the offer. Then he peers over at Tony to gauge his reaction. The older man shrugs then says,

“We might be in London for spring break.”

“Ah,” she nods. “To visit Peggy, then?”

“Yep.”

“I mean if something comes up sooner,” he broaches, glancing back and forth between the adults, “I wouldn’t mind missing school.”

Tony pins him with an unimpressed gaze.

“We’d rather you not miss school, Peter.” Pepper replies for the both of them.

He does not bother hiding his frown.

Tony chuckles and Peter fights not to redirect his displeasure toward the inventor. “If you were this interested in what’s going on behind the scenes, all you ever have to do is ask, kiddo. Either of us will let you shadow us— it’s no bother.”

Peter nods at the reminder, “Yeah I guess.”

Chaos has kept Peter out of Tony’s personal or work labs since the start of December and Peter’s never shadowed Pepper despite a few offers. Perhaps next week would be the best time to get his feet wet. He files it away for later.

Rest of dinner flies by. Pepper suggests a movie, Tony cuts three slices of chocolate cake, and Peter settles down on the couch.

Then Peter ends up falling asleep during the movie, not even remembering what they planned on watching. He remembers raving about the cake and Tony protesting each option Pepper tosses out for their film then the next thing he recalls is being told to go to his room.

When Peter wakes up the next morning it is with a dizzy spell and throbbing in his temples.

“Ah, no,” he whines, curling into a ball and squeezing his eyes shut as he hopes for the dizziness to pass.

It doesn’t. 

He thinks there’s medication in his bathroom for such ailments. If only he could get out of bed.

“Hey, FRI?” he prompts. 

“How can I help you, Peter?”

The A.I.’s voice grates under his skin and Peter flinches back into his covers, hiding beneath the comforter. He takes a couple beats to reply.

“Do I have Tylenol or Aleve in my bathroom?”

“Not in your bathroom, no.”

He pauses long enough to groan his displeasure, contemplating if it is even worth asking where it is if not in his bathroom.

Instead of asking for further help from FRIDAY, Peter stays curled up in a ball for another hour before deciding to sit up. 

His head is heavy as he ascends and he grasps it once he is upright. White specks float around his vision and his ears feel funny. His heartbeat settles along his temples. He feels… off. As he attempts to slow his breathing down, Peter realizes that his nose is stuffed and he can’t breathe out of it. His heart stutters then gallops.

“Okay, okay, don’t freak out,” he repeats under his breath, willing his anxiety to stay calm.

Several minutes pass before Peter attempts standing up and when he finally succeeds he stumbles, ground and walls swirling around him until he can’t distinguish up from down, left from right. Eventually Peter grabs onto something to steady himself and blinks blinks blinks until the world rights itself and he mutters,

“Whoa.”

He has a brilliant idea that perhaps a shower will clear up his stuffy nose. So Peter slowly treks across the carpet until he makes it into his attached bathroom, keeping the door cracked as he flips on the overhead lights. Except the lights aren’t that great of an idea and FRIDAY isn’t hooked up in his bathroom yet. Her expansion throughout the penthouse is slow going. Peter wants to cry.

He sets the water temperature this side of scalding and sits on the closed toilet lid as steam trickles around him as he works up energy to undress and get under the spray. Eventually he stands with the assistance of the countertop, undresses, and closes the curtain once he’s inside the walk-in shower. He realizes the slower he moves how much easier it is function. Slow and steady wins the race. (Nevermind the fact Peter’s on-switch’s three settings are fast, faster, and fastest.) Peter sucks in a big breath.

And promptly starts coughing. 

“Hazard,” he puffs out between fits and leans against the tile.

 _What a disaster,_ he laments.

When Peter can’t make it through shampooing his hair, he is forced to sit down and cough into his knees. At some point he starts crying, he’s sure, but isn’t certain on when the shower water turns into tears. He attempts to angle himself around to wash out the soap but after a couple attempts scooting and craning his neck around he stops. It’s more important to turn off the water than getting soap out of his hair.

It’s a blur on how he gets out of the shower. Somehow he’s sitting on the toilet lid once more, bundled up in a couple towels, and sniffling. Embarrassment nudges on the edges but Peter’s just glad he’s home alone while he cries. He hates being sick but more than that he hates being sick in front of people.

“Peter, are you awake?” comes Pepper’s voice and a somewhat-far-away knock at what must be Peter’s bedroom door. “Peter?”

His head drops, chin resting atop his chest. _How did he miss Pepper’s entrance? How?_

His door slides open and Peter listens as FRIDAY gives up his location. 

Hastily he wipes his cheeks as Pepper’s footfalls come closer and closer toward him. 

“Sweetheart?”

“I— I’m okay,” he forces out.

But Pepper’s hand knocks all the same on the cracked door. “Are you sick?”

“No.” he pauses at his gravelly voice. “Yes.”

“What can I do to help?”

He thinks.

“Is it alright if I come in?”

He nods, then remembers she can’t see him so he speaks up, “Yeah.”

Pepper pushes open the cracked door. Immediately upon seeing him, she beelines over and bends down before him, one hand resting on a covered knee and the other pushes wet bangs off his forehead. Her smile is barely there, more an uptick than an actual smile, but her sincerity bleeds through the motion and he might soar at the sight if he weren’t so dizzy.

“What’s bothering you?”

“It’s just a cold,” he tells her.

Her brows inch up her forehead. “If you say so,” she allows, tone disbelieving and wrapped in the barest hint of amusement as if she knows something he does not. After a couple beats she stands up. “I’m going to grab your clothes; I’ll be right back.”

His eyes slip shut and by the time they open again Pepper is gone. Somewhere inside of him Peter knows he ought to be more embarrassed about his mentor’s fiancée finding him wrapped in towels and shivering on a toilet lid but there is no energy to be spared for such emotions. Pepper isn’t making a big deal over it so neither will Peter.

“Here,” her voice prompts his eyes to open once more and hands sandwiching stacks of clothing hover before him.

Peter takes them.

“If you need help you can call for me; I’m going to be outside the door, okay?”

He nods.

Yeah, he’s not going to ask for Pepper’s help getting dressed no matter how dizzy he gets slipping on sweats and a henley. He’d rather suffer than be humiliated any day. And he does just that.

His towels end up on the floor and he doesn’t bother bending down to gather them up. Instead he steps over them, hanging on to the countertop, and shuffles toward the closed door and pulls down the knob. Pepper is a couple feet away from the door, eyes pinning him in place as soon as he exits and glances him over. _Don’t keel over, don’t keel over,_ he wishes vehemently. Pepper closes the distance between them and assists Peter back to bed.

She rearranges his comforter then motions for him to slide in bed. Once he’s settled, she brings the blanket up to his collarbone and pushes back his hair some more.

“Do you want some ginger ale?” she asks, fingernails ever so slightly applying pressure on his scalp. “You need to stay hydrated.”

He hums in agreement, settling back into his pillows and eyes falling shut.

Pepper’s hand disappears. 

“Actually.”

He opens his eyes to see Pepper nod.

“Can I have ice cream?”

She breathes an amused noise, glancing down and shaking her head. “Sure,” she agrees. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Peter misses her when she leaves. Her presence is strikingly similar to his mother or Aunt May whenever he’s gotten sick in the past, nurturing and attentive. Pepper’s style, or what he has saw today, is a great medium between how his mother and aunt cared for him growing up: Mary had babied him up until four or five years ago and May gave him medicine and forehead kisses before leaving the rest up to Ben. Once his mother stopped babying him, Peter flushes whenever attention is spared to him and he has found out that suffering alone is better than dealing with extra attention.

He does miss extra hugs, though.

Pepper returns with her hands full of treats. She passes off a red bowl to him then sets down ginger ale on his nightstand. “It’s vanilla because I wasn’t sure how cookies and cream would be on your stomach.”

He doesn’t care, honestly. Ice cream is ice cream at this point. He settles the bowl on his chest, fiddling with the spoon. “Thanks, Pepper.” 

“You’re welcome. Here,” she holds out her hand and a blue pill falls into his.

Grateful for the medicine, Peter pops it in his mouth and swallows it down with a swig of ginger ale.

Pepper takes his cup from him and directs, “Have FRIDAY call me or Tony if your symptoms worsen.”

“Sure,” he says but knows he won’t bother them.

Her palm presses against his forehead one last time before she leaves with a goodbye. Peter doesn’t watch her go because he’s too focused on inhaling his sweet treat. It goes down fine but once he finishes the shivers return with a vengeance. So Peter hunkers down and goes back to sleep.

After he wakes up the next morning, he notes his dizziness has abated but he still can’t breathe out his nose. Then he remembers what day it is and Peter knows he has to hunker down and get rid of the obnoxious cold that’s weakened him. It’s Friday. Nerves gather and dance around his belly.

Slowly Peter gets out of bed and starts his day.

Tony and Pepper are in the kitchen, one sipping coffee while the other scrolls on a tablet, situated at the island. Tension hangs heavily and if it had been tangible Peter could flex his fingers and squeeze it. His brows furrow as he hesitantly edges further into the room, going towards the refrigerator.

“Morning,” he remarks.

“Good morning, Peter. How are you feeling?” Pepper inquires and Peter hears her set down her tablet. “You slept through dinner.”

“Yeah, I think I’m doing better; not as dizzy at any rate,” he responds.

“Think it was the flu?”

“Didn’t feel like it; then again, it could just be exhaustion from all the late nights I pulled last week or so.”

Pepper tuts.

Peter finishes pouring a small glass of orange juice and returns the carton back into the fridge. He notes Tony’s silence but doesn’t mention it. He goes about making toast and Pepper slides over an unpeeled banana once he sits down next to Tony. The older man offers him a quick, strained smile. Peter doesn’t have a chance to return it before Tony returns his attention to his coffee mug.

It stings.

Silence settles around them.

“What’s today’s agenda?” he asks Pepper softly, sliding his empty plate full of crumbs a few inches away.

“Well,” she starts, clearing her throat, “one of us needs to be down at the venue sometime before noon for last minute preparations.” 

“It’s gonna have to be you, Pep.” Tony speaks up, his voice sharp and loud against the kitchen’s atmosphere. “Pete’s going to stay in Queens tonight.”

 _That’s strange,_ he thinks as he watches the confusion flit quickly across Pepper’s features before smoothing out. Why wouldn’t Tony have told Pepper that Peter was staying with his mother tonight? It must have slipped his mind is all Peter can deduce. Then again the gala must have a higher priority, though it does little to explain Tony’s distraction so far this morning.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Pepper says, tone taking on a steelier edge that Peter generally only hears when she’s on work-related calls.

Peter waits, assuming that Pepper will make a dig about Tony trying to get out of his responsibilities but it never comes. 

Tony changes the topic.

“I’m thinking of dropping you off no later than four; how’s that sound?”

Peter twists to meet his mentor’s gaze, feeling compelled to agree, “Sure.”

He knows the gala starts at six and realizes Tony could be pressed for time if traffic is congested. Peter makes mental notes to check his bag and text his mother after breakfast to keep with the schedule. Then he squashes down the minuscule thought that Tony appears as if he can’t wait to get rid of Peter for the evening, which is… stupid, he knows. He flexes his jaw and struggles to push down his anxiety.

“I’ll see you around, got some stuff to finish up in the lab,” Tony excuses himself, taking his mug and disappearing down the hallway.

“Did I do something?” he directs at Pepper, no doubt unable to hide his hurt. 

“No, not at all.” she reassures, reaching over to plant her hand atop his and squeezes. “Tony’s… stressed right now and he isn’t always the best about handling it.”

Peter looks up into kind blue eyes, “Should I stay here this weekend?”

“Not on Tony’s account, no; but you do what you want to do.” she emphasizes with an inclination of her head. “You don’t have to worry about him so much, hon; today’s just a hard day for him. Just be there for him.”

Peter is missing a vital piece of their conversation but he does not want to ask.

Pepper excuses herself next.

Somehow he finds the energy to rinse off his dishes and situate them inside the dishwasher. He grabs a glass of iced water and heads back to his room. 

Day drags until three o’clock rolls around.

“You ready?” Tony questions, upper body poking through the doorway crack.

“Yeah, sure,” he nods, tossing down his PS4 controller and hopping up from his perch on the beanbag. “Give me a couple minutes?”

“Meet you in the living room.”

Peter saves his game and puts away the controller. He shoulders his backpack turned overnight bag and does a quick three-sixty to confirm he hasn’t forgotten anything. His charger. Peter swipes it, not wanting to take any chances, even on a Stark device.

“Ready,” he announces his presence.

Tony nods his head and out they go.

They stay silent until Tony pulls out of the parking garage.

“If anything happens, you call me.” his mentor insists, his gaze on the road before them. “Capiche?”

Peter attempts to bite back his frustration and replies, “Nothing’ll happen.”

“Peter.”

“If it’ll make your helicopter tendencies chill out, then sure, yeah, I promise to call you.”

He stares back out the window.

“I just worry about you.”

Peter turns at Tony’s quiet admission.

“I don’t want to see you hurt.”

How is he meant to respond? Sincerity and compassion bleeds out of Tony’s tone of voice yet it wars with Peter’s defensiveness, with all those years of keeping his mother’s secrets and harboring it alone. He stares at a chasm that he cannot cross.

East River’s scent tickles his nose and not long after he can clearly see it as 59th dead-ends into the Queensboro bridge. Peter unleashes his senses just enough for the collective humming of motorists on the bridge to crash into his ears as if courtesy of a conch shell. Immediately it’s a bit much. Yet Peter refuses to dial back, enjoying the humming of city life jiving for his attention like caffeine swimming through his veins. His eyes flit around. Wonders what it would be like to swing across the bridge. 

A phone buzzes.

Peter pulls away from window gazing and turns to peek at Tony. 

“Not me,” he acknowledges Peter’s silent inquiry, “can’t be mine since I’m hooked up to FRIDAY in here.”

Buzzes do not abate so Peter searches for his phone.

It’s his mother calling and he swipes accept before it takes the call to voicemail.

“Hi, Mom.” 

“Hey, cub,” his mother’s alto fills him up and he settles further back into his seat. “Listen.”

“What’s up?”

Out the corner of Peter’s eye he sees Tony stiffen, hands clenching and flexing on the steering wheel.

“Is there anyway we can switch our night together to tomorrow?”

Peter controls the urge to cry out, “Why?”

“I was asked to work overtime tonight—”

“Mom, we’re already on our way over—”

“I could use the extra money, Peter.” Mary talks over him, voice pitching but not escalating into yelling. “I’m yours the rest of the weekend. You could stay at the apartment alone but I don’t think Tony would appreciate it based on our last conversation.”

Peter huffs. 

“Peter—”

He cuts her off this time, “You know what? No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you some other time.”

Mary calls out his name again but Peter ends the call.

“She canceled on you?” ventures Tony for clarification, though Peter knows he doesn’t need it due to space or lack thereof. 

“Yep.”

They aren’t even off the bridge yet. 

“I’m sorry, bud.” 

Peter closes his eyes, tipping his head against cool glass.

“If you really want to stay in Queens tonight—” starts Tony.

“No,” he sighs. “Let’s just go back home.”

Once they exit the bridge Peter knows that Tony loops around to cross back over into Manhattan. There isn’t an interest to watch out his window now. Honestly a piece of him is not surprised by his mother’s actions, but his lack of surprise doesn’t lessen the sting of disappointment suffocating him. 

Tony allows him to stew in silence.

Peter is the first out of the car once they have returned to the penthouse. Conscious of his strength, Peter slams the door shut hoping for minuscule amounts of relief at the harsh sound. Nothing. On the opposite side Tony exits with more care and his eyebrows lift over the top of his blue tinted sunglasses. His stomach swoops.

“It’s not fair,” he deplores, averting his gaze and kicking at the ground.

He listens as Tony rounds the car, tugging his backpack away from Peter’s slackened grip, and then there is pressure at his nape where his mentor’s hand squeezes once then rests. “I’ll stay home with you.”

Peter peers up, not enough momentum to knock off Tony’s reassuring hold. “What? No. You can’t miss the gala.”

“I can do whatever I want,” the inventor reminds him.

Then he’s being nudged along and they take the elevator up toward the penthouse.

“I don’t want Pepper to be mad,” he mumbles. 

Tony scoffs. “She won’t be mad. At either one of us,” he tacks on at the end. “Who wants to hang out with stuffy old-timers all night long? Not this guy.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

Eventually he presses out, “No, Tony… I appreciate it; but you don’t have to babysit me tonight.”

“I know you can take care of yourself, kiddo.”

“Then why won’t you let me stay home alone?”

Tony sighs and gently says, “Because I thought you could use the company.”

 _Oh,_ he thinks, brain short-circuiting.

He could use a hug right about now but he’s too embarrassed asking for one. There isn’t enough time dwelling on it because the elevator doors slide open and Tony strides out, fiddling with his keys to unlock the front door. Peter shuffles out after him.

“I’m off to beautify myself,” his mentor says once they cross the threshold. “We’ll say goodbye before we’re off.”

“Cool,” he murmurs and plants himself on the sofa, curling into his corner.

Peter thinks that having Tony’s company would have been nice. Both Tony and Pepper have made it their priority to bond, so to speak, with him since he’s moved in with them, though exams have made it feel as if Peter hasn’t had much time with either adult. If Tony had made the decision to stay, overriding Peter’s protests, Peter would have been okay with it. More than okay, he realizes.

Now he has the opportunity to patrol tonight and Peter isn’t going to give that one up voluntarily.

He clicks on the television. 

Tony and Pepper come to say goodbye to him over an hour later, dressed to the nines and complimenting each other nicely, he thinks. 

“Don’t have too much fun without us,” Tony says, mussing Peter’s curls.

He halfheartedly glares up in return.

A hint of a smirk tugs at Tony’s expression before he pats Peter’s forearm and makes way for his fiancée.

“You don’t have to wait up on us,” Pepper tells him, as if correcting Tony’s statement, “because we could be in as late as one. Take care.” she presses a quick kiss to the center of his forehead.

Peter blinks up at her affection, his chest lighting up like a field of fireflies.

“Ask FRIDAY if you need anything,” comes Tony’s final piece of advice.

“Sure,” he spits out, words tangled on his tongue from a mixture of amusement and confusion and a hint of sadness.

After waving them out the door does Peter comprehend why he’s feeling sad: their departure is reminiscent of his uncle and aunt whenever they’d leave him home alone for an extended period of time. He wants to smile.

He forces himself to watch whatever sitcom he’s been watching for another twenty minutes. His stomach rumbles with hunger. But he waits.

Once the show finishes, Peter shuts everything down and shuffles into his bedroom. He peers out his window, trying to decipher if scaling the building is a smart idea. He’s much higher up than he has ever been in Queens, but the foot traffic is practically nonexistent from the back of his new home. Less likelihood of Peter forgetting and consequently losing his backpack if he changes from here and leaves on patrol.

He changes into his homemade suit, mumbling about growths spurts all the while, and does just that: he peers out the window and makes sure no one is in the vicinity, crawls out his window and sticks to the facade on the other side. He leaves the window cracked and presses down on his webshooter. It latches and he lets gravity pull him down to the ground.

“Let’s go, Spider-Man,” he hypes himself up.

But first he wants to get out of the area without alerting Manhattanites of his presence. 

Several blocks later he takes to the skies and swings his way towards Queens.

He lets out a whoop of exhilaration on the first upward swing. 

Inside of Queens proper Peter immediately sees three people fighting on the sidewalk. He flips onto the scene to break it up. Jumps back when someone brandishes a pocket knife and he’s thankful that his reflexes are ahead of him because he webs the knife to the ground before giving all three guys the same treatment when one makes a swing at him. Someone offers to call the police.

Rinse and repeat. 

His focus tonight is different than usual. Before Peter’s attention could be scattered and he wouldn’t do anything overly productive, depending on who is asked. Now there may as well be kerosene guiding him onward. Peter has superpowers and it’s his fault for not saving his uncle; if he wants to keep running around and helping people then he’s got to make it _count._ If he can’t help out properly then all the bad things happen because of him. Peter can help. Well, Spider-Man can help.

So Peter’s on the lookout for trouble. He still offers his assistance to lost tourists and assisting grocers taking out heavy loads of garbage, but his attention is on extending his senses and searching for clues. 

He isn’t entirely clear on what the clues are or will turn out to be, though he keeps searching.

Until he overhears a conversation.

Peter picks up _alien tech_ and _lasers_ and _guns_ and he leaps off one building and lands on his feet on another. He races across rooftops until he closes the distance and the overhead conversation draws nearer and nearer.

“There’s always more where that came from,” comes a cocky reply out of a deep voice.

Peter stops using his webs and catapults toward the next building. He’s pretty sure the rendezvous is just passed that alleyway up on the left. This side of town Peter isn’t as familiar with so he isn’t sure if the alleyway he is coming up on will be blocked off or not. 

It’s blocked off, he finds. Though it obviously has not stopped the two guys from parking an old and beat-up van that may have been brown once upon a time back there. Van’s back doors are wide open and Peter can clearly see a plethora of weapons inside.

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, craning around to get a better look despite his enhancements.

“This isn’t what I requested.” the second dude says with heat before shoving a flashy and purple device at the first dude’s chest.

“No, but it’s better.”

Peter isn’t quite sure how to handle this situation. There is a bunch of unknown tech down there and a lot of it reminds him of that alien invasion several years back that makes him want to avoid the area with a wide berth. 

“Focus,” he redirects his anxieties. “C’mon dude, just… focus.”

So today isn’t the best time he’s ever given himself a pep talk. All the same Peter pushes beyond his insecurities and creeps closer to the edge.

During his trek across the edge, the dudes disappear and the taillights flicker red. Peter scrambles with indecisions and decides that jumping atop a reversing van isn’t intelligent. So instead Peter allows the van to merge into traffic. He doesn’t wait long until he’s swinging after them without giving up much lead.

Peter finds out that pursuing a single car in evening Queens traffic is a tad more difficult than he ever imagined. It’s not that he loses sight of the van, per se, so much as the buildings  are a challenge that he didn’t foresee, especially as the route they are heading down is toward suburban homes and there are less and less sturdy objects for Peter’s advantage. There’s about a hundred yards before Peter has to make a decision between forgoing webs and running after the van or jumping over rooftops. Either way he’s going to look like an obvious idiot. 

Time runs out: Peter slams into a lamp post. 

“Ah, fuck,” he cries as his body curls around metal, twirls halfway, then collapses toward ground. “Ow. Ow ow ow. Shit.”

His side flares and he’s winded. Peter pauses long enough to get his breath back then finds the will to stand back up. Van, of course, is long gone. He’s made enough ruckus to stir homeowners’ curiosities and Peter wants to disappear.

As casually as an up-and-coming crimefighter can Peter limps his way out of the neighborhood until buildings populate around him once more and he can swing his way without need for acrobatics. He’s shaky. But he’s been through worse on patrol and it’ll be fine within a couple hours, next morning at the latest. He’ll head home early and shower and curl into bed and hope the healing he’s acquired will kick in. His stomach rumbles. Well, he’ll have to make a pitstop in the kitchen and find something to eat. 

Peter’s been told plans go to hell in a hand-basket and he’s never fully agreed with the sentiment until now.

He thinks he has pulled a muscle on his bruised right side because there is a sharp pinch every single time he shoots off a web. His expression behind the mask may permanently be scrunched up from his discomfort. Only other viable option to get home is to walk and Peter knows that can’t happen. There’s also no way on earth that he’d call his mentor and ask for a ride out of Queens. So Peter finishes the torturous swing from Queens into Manhattan.

Five blocks away from the penthouse Peter lowers to the ground in same alley he took off from earlier. He contemplates the logistics of taking off his mask and hoodie to better blend in on the walk home. Upon realizing he walked around town in the outfit just hours ago there isn’t a point not repeating and off he goes, head tilted at the sidewalk as he joins foot traffic. 

He’s smart enough to check for observant folks before attaching himself to the building’s facade and scurrying up toward his still cracked window. Of course he thinks nothing of his bedroom being lit up; simply assumes he left the lights on before leaving. 

His left fingertips gently push open the window so Peter has enough room to tumble inside rather gracelessly if he says so himself. He dives for the floor head first and attempts to somersault. He plops onto carpet, winded, and pants heavily as his eyes blink away the brightness on his bedroom. His side flares up again. His head is woozy and his lungs have a bit of a rattle each time he’s sucking in air and Peter realizes he’s most likely _not_ over his cold or whatever he’s been saddled with last couple days. His heartbeat settles in his ears and gallops double time. He closes his eyes. 

A throat clears.

Peter startles upright, jerking this way and that in search of the intruder.

He finds Pepper situated on the edge of his bed, blonde brows raised as she takes in his position on the floor, one knee crossed over the other, and her palms cupping her chin. Her hair is combed out from the curls she had earlier, face washed, and clad in gray pajamas.

“Oh no,” he mouths.

His eyes search his bedroom for a clock because there’s no way Peter’s _late,_ no they must have come home _early_ yet he can’t find a clock because the only device in his room that tells the time is his phone and _that_ is on his nightstand where he left it. Oops.

“Please don’t tell him,” he begs, words flying out of his mouth as soon as he thinks them. He scrambles upright until he sits on his shins. “Pepper, please don’t tell him.”

Pepper’s eyes close and the space between her eyebrows crease. “I’m sorry, Peter.” she sighs. “I can’t keep this a secret from him.”

“Wait—” he rises to his knees and takes a step to close the distance, reaching his right hand out as if to stop her.

Pepper stands from his bed. “You should change and get into bed. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” The _if Tony can wait that long_ goes unsaid. She pauses and shifts her attention back to him. “Are you hurt?”

How can he tell her that his injuries are superficial without lying to her. He imagines lying on top of the identity reveal will worsen his punishment. With jerky movements he shakes his head in denial.

She doesn’t believe him, if her downcast eyes and noticeable exhale are to be believed.

“Pepper—” he tries again. 

Pepper walks out of his room, closing the door behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have I mentioned how much I appreciate each and every kudos and comments???? because it means the WORLD to me ♥️♥️♥️
> 
> come scream at me on my [tumblr](https://ardenskyedarcy221b.tumblr.com)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't look so surprised. even I couldn't handle waiting two weeks or more to get this out. have fun!

Sleep eludes him. His stomach cramps, from hunger at first until his nerves take control, and he curls up on his side, hiding underneath his comforter. He screwed up. All he can think about is how colossally he’s screwed up and the cherry on top is asking Pepper Potts not to rat him out. _Perfect,_ his brain scoffs at him as he cringes at the replayed imagine of Pepper walking out of his bedroom and leaving Peter to suffer in anticipation alone. Over and over and over and over again.

They are going to kick him out at this rate.

He’s _so_ screwed.

There is a jab from the right side of his stomach and Peter’s positive he’ll throw up at this rate.

He knows there isn’t anything he can do until Tony or Pepper come looking for him, so he tries to sleep. Really, he does. Only he tosses and turns and the few times he drifts off it isn’t a heavy sleep and he startles awake with a sharp inhale or on a gasp of something nameless. He’s a jitterbug, high on anxiety and what-if scenarios. His hands shake so he shoves one beneath his pillow and the other between his knees, curling up tighter and tighter, praying the nausea will pass and the night will end. Head swirls with dizzying white specks and flashes of color. His heart rhythm is irregular.

He’d rather Tony burst into his room, irate and disappointed, screaming his head off at Peter than the treatment he’s being given. He isn’t used to silent treatments or whatever it is Tony’s doing. His mother never lets anything fester. If Peter’s crossed a line in the past, and honestly there weren’t many occasions, then Mary hashed it out immediately.

Waiting around for the axe to fall sucks, he decides some time around one in the morning.

He contemplates playing video games, then dismisses the idea rather quickly. YouTube holds no appeal. Ned’s definitely asleep by this time of night and Peter honestly doesn’t want to unload on his friend right now anyways, though texting could have been a nice distraction. Instead, Peter winds up squeezing his eyes closed as if in denial of the world around him. Breathes out his mouth because his nose continuously grows stuffier. He lays on his left side because he heard somewhere once that it’s supposed to lower one’s blood pressure and thinks it may be worth a shot to lower his out-of-control heartbeat. If it does anything to help, the effects aren’t long lasting because Peter’s brain will not shut up and it spikes again soon after.

Around three he can’t take it anymore and ends up kneeling in front of the toilet and pukes what little content is in his stomach. It’s mostly bile and acid, and it hurts coming up, nose suddenly running again and tears streaming down his cheeks, as he continues to dry heave. He’s hot, then cold. He curls up against the bathtub and waits for the feeling to pass. It’s been a hot minute since he’s last worked himself up this hard to throw up. Not unusual for him, but he thought he was growing passed it. Somehow he finds the strength to gargle then sip water from the faucet and eventually brushes his teeth. He dislikes the minty aftertaste.

Sniffling, he ends up in bed again, curling up tight, and forces himself to go to sleep. He dozes until he drops off, unaware.

Next time he looks at his phone it’s after five in the morning. His teeth start chattering and Peter just wills the world to start the day. He can’t take much more.

Manhattan, awake throughout the entire night with Peter, slowly becomes nosier and Peter realizes time must be creeping towards acceptable human hours.

Not long after does he hears a pair of feet padding down the hallway and stop outside his door.

His door opens.

Peter’s back is toward it so he hopes him tensing up goes unnoticed beneath his pile of blankets.

“Come on,” comes a rasp from a familiar baritone. “C’mon, Peter, get up.”

Not wanting to give up his covers though not willing to irk Tony’s ire any further, Peter pulls down the blankets far enough for him to crane his head to meet Tony’s imposing figure just inside his bedroom. “I’m up,” he says simply.

“Living room.”

Peter opens his mouth.

“No arguments. Meet me in the living room.”

And Tony disappears.

He sighs and carefully slips out of bed. He doesn’t make his bed and doesn’t bother dawdling any further.

Peter finds both adults in the living room, Pepper seated on the sofa still clad in her pajamas while Tony paces the space before the coffee table. Peter hesitates in the entryway, torn between making himself comfortable and waiting for an invitation.

“Sit.”

Peter obeys Tony’s command, making sure his feet do not drag as he moves around to sit on the opposite side of the sofa from Pepper. He avoids their gazes, focused on his clasped hands, awaiting judgment. Silence has never been so oppressive before, heavy enough to feel and thick enough to choke him. His brain is hung on to the fact he begged Pepper to keep his secret and that Tony’s not going to understand. Can teenagers have midlife crises? Peter thinks yes, because he’s currently living out his own.

“What’s this?”

Peter looks up rather reluctantly until he notices that Tony’s clutching his bundled up costume and cries out, “Hey, where’d you get that?”

“Nuh uh,” the older man jabs a finger through the air, brown eyes darkening at the same moment his facial features harden, as he shakes his fist holding Peter’s suit, “adults are talking first. You’ll get your opportunity to defend yourself. However, until that time comes, you’re meant to zip it and listen and speak when asked.”

“Tony.”

Peter’s vibrating with nerves and he’s too busy nodding along to Tony to pay Pepper’s reprimand any attention. His jaw locks but he isn’t comfortable talking back.

His guardian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Once he finds whatever he had been searching for, he opens his eyes and repeats his question, tone no less demanding an answer but lacking bite. “What is this?”

Peter mouth opens but it’s dry so he imitates a fish until he’s able to reply, “My suit.”

Tony’s lower jaw flexes.

Peter steals a peek at Pepper, but the strawberry-blonde’s attention is on her fiancé and he can’t read her expression from side profile.

“Y’know, if Pepper hadn’t caught you in it, literally _climbing through your window,_ I wouldn’t have believed it. Oh, trust me, I know the universe likes to have a good laugh at my expense, but my son—” he cuts off abruptly.

“I just wanted to be like you.” he admits, soft and insecure, eyes on Tony before glancing away and flitting back. “I’ve always wanted to be like you.”

Tony makes a face before tilting his head up at the ceiling and goes on to say, “If you want to be like me, Peter, that doesn’t mean following identically in my footsteps. I cannot have my fifteen year old playing superhero. Nope. No way. Peter, I want you to be _better_ than me— you already _are_ better than me.” he puffs and huffs, following the path he has created before the coffee table back and forth, back and forth.

“How can I be better than the greatest?”

“Peter,” his name is spoken so delicately, wrapped in turmoil, that Peter’s own heart clenches.

They sit in silence as Tony vacillates. Pepper shifts. Tony’s fists clench and unclench. And Peter’s back aches, not as noticeably as his side, but he refuses to release his stiff posture.

Eventually Tony professes, “I am not the greatest.”

Peter goes to contradict Tony’s denial but the older man continues on, shaking his head as if batting away an errant thought.

“We’re off topic. Pep, how’d you let us get off topic?”

Pepper exhales through her nose, though remains silent because Tony’s energy presses onward and she has little time to defend herself.

“Look, Queens’s Spider-Man has been on my radar for some time now. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been top of the list, but I’ve been tracking his identity.”

A cold chill trails down Peter’s spine.

“I won’t lie. I didn’t believe Pepper last night when she told me she caught you. I did, however, spend the rest of the evening pulling evidence and compiling a list and lo and behold what do you know? FRIDAY confirms your alter ego.”

“Nobody was supposed to find out,” he murmurs.

“Well, it happened.”

“Who else knows?” Peppers asks.

He shakes his head.

“Don’t lie to us,” his mentor grounds out.

“Nobody was meant to find out,” he protests, feeling akin to a trapped animal with their hair raised along their spine, “Honestly. I don’t want to broadcast my identity, trust me I _understand_ that it’s serious and I don’t want my family to be affected by it. But it isn’t like I’m on the scale of the Avengers because I don’t patrol consistently. It’s nothing, it’s harmless.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

Pepper implores him for his honesty by simply stating his name, “Peter.”

“Just Ned,” he finally confesses, “my best friend. He found my suit— he’s the only one that knows.” he halts his rambling before he goes on a tangent. They know who Ned is and he’s not sure why he tacked on that clarifier but his face heats up all the same.

“Your mom? Ben? May?”

Peter shakes his head empathically.

Tony wipes a hand down his face and finally gives up pacing. He parks himself on the coffee table, which Peter is beginning to understand is the man’s wont when it comes to this kind of stuff, and he just takes in Peter. His stare is intense and perhaps critical but maybe not if Peter can ever get passed his high-key levels of anxiety…. Tony examines Peter as if he is a specimen to be understood. He fights the urge to fidget, to look away, because he knows he is lacking and Tony will not find what he wants. Whatever it is he is looking for, Peter knows he doesn’t have it.

“For the foreseeable future that suit belongs to me.”

Peter stands in alarm. “What?! No way!”

“Sit down.”

“C’mon, _no_ , that isn’t fair.”

“So’s life.”

“Tony.”

“Peter, sit down. I’m not having this conversation with you—”

“It isn’t even a conversation!” he corrects, shaking his head and willing away the tears of frustration pooling behind his eyelids. “It’s you _telling_ me what’s going to happen and you said that I’d have my chance to defend myself!”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. We can have this conversation but I need you not to yell.”

Peter growls under his breath in frustration. “I have a responsibly to Queens—” he starts.

“I’m gonna stop you there,” Tony interjects. “No, you absolutely do not. The only responsibilities you have are being a teenager and school. Period.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I don’t need to understand whatever convoluted logic—”

“You’re not even listening to me. Please just listen!” Peter talks over Tony, plowing on. “If I can keep someone from losing their loved one… like I lost Ben… then I have to do it. I have these powers for a reason. It’s just taken a lot of time… y’know, figuring stuff out.”

“I am not condoning my child masquerading around the city in pajamas.”

Peter huffs out a long groan. “I’m not a little kid.”

“Well, you’re sure not an adult, so what does that make you?”

Peter doesn’t bother answering Tony.

“Suit's mine, don’t bother trying to steal it back because it’s going to be under lock and key thanks to FRIDAY.” Tony rattles off, tugging on Peter’s wrist until the teenager takes the memo to sit back down, rather reluctantly. “And while we’re at it, you’re grounded.”

“What? No way!” he protest, staring up at his guardian in dismay.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” comes the instantaneous response.

“How long?”

“For however long I think it needs to be.”

“That isn’t fair!”

“You snuck out of the house.”

“So you’re saying I can’t ever leave?”

Tony pins him with an expression that begs Peter to cross him. “I didn’t say that. You are, however, supposed to keep me informed.”

“So you have to know my every move.”

“No. It’s called respect and communication, Peter.”

“I can take care of myself!” He spits out, glaring up at the impassible Tony Stark staring him down. Flames licking at his veins finally won’t be silenced and Peter has no control over his mouth now. “I fight bad guys all the time!”

“Is that why you’ve got a wicked bruise on your side?” Tony postulates, arm crossing over his chest.

Peter stares at him, shocked.

“Ooh, didn’t think I knew about that, hmm?”

“It’ll heal.”

Tony shakes his head, a smile blooming across his lips but it isn’t full of happiness.

Silence befalls them.

“C’mon, I’ll make breakfast.” Pepper speaks, splintering the silence and standing from the couch.

Peter automatically denies, “I’m not hungry.” but his stomach growls and cramps at the mention of food and he is too high on adrenaline and anxiety to make a decision. He skipped dinner last night. He threw up this morning. Peter feels empty. He is the furthest thing from hungry and yet perhaps Pepper is right to suggest food.

“Let’s get something into you,” she reiterates her point, nodding toward the kitchen.

It’s weird: assisting his family with breakfast after their first major argument. Pepper won’t allow Peter to run back into his bedroom and hide, despite how much he wants it. Peter is the type to run and hide after a fight, puts distance between him and his issues and hope everyone involved will ignore it just the same. His mother has always allowed him space. To a certain extent so did May and Ben, though the latter had the tendency to break Peter of his silence by getting him to laugh. Now, though, the atmosphere is awkward with their lingering argument as they work as a stilted unit to make omelettes. Each move Peter makes reflects Tony grounding him, upset with him, and Peter can’t look the engineer in the eye. They won’t let him flee but Peter doesn’t know how to do this, how to act normal after something quite so spectacularly upsetting. He can’t read Tony or Pepper, either, so Peter assumes the awkwardness stems from his own lack of knowledge.

“May I be excused?” he directs his question at Pepper once he has finished the majority of his breakfast.

He listens as Tony opens his mouth to reply and then the noise of Pepper’s toes kicking into Tony’s leg beneath the table.

“You may,” Pepper replies.

Peter takes his stuff to the sink, rinses it off, puts his dishes on the bottom shelf of the dishwasher, and hightails it toward his bedroom to the tune of Tony and Pepper bickering behind him.

“Ow. Why’d you kick me?”

“You deserved it.”

“I did not.”

Their pettiness follows him all the way into his bedroom but as the conversation shifts back toward him, Peter tunes them out. He does not have the heart to listen to their thoughts. His own are enough right now.

He closes his bedroom door, back against the wood as he surveys the room. His bed ought to be inviting and Peter could use a nap, but it is also the place he spent the entire night tossing and turning and he doesn’t necessarily wanna go back to it. His bean bag, on the other hand, looks inviting and he figures he can get maybe a game in before Tony comes to collect his consoles.

He heads toward the gaming units and stops in his tracks.

“Under the Timeout Protocol, Peter, you are unable to play your games as I have all access locked.” FRIDAY’s voice breaks the news.

He should have saw that one coming.

With a groan, Peter throws himself down onto his bean bag and stares up at the ceiling, vision crossing with the sudden movement. He notices his eyelids growing heavy and his body sinking further into plush until he drops into sleep.

“Peter.”

“Hmm?”

He wants the voice to go away. His arm is too heavy to swat at it but his dream flickers. Everything is blurry and tinged in greens and blues. He is at the point where he could perhaps control the dream to get it back on track, but if he thinks too hard—

“Why’d you fall asleep on the floor?”

He whines. He thinks about faking sleep but then his mind reminds him about last night and this morning’s argument and Peter is suddenly wide awake. His eyes blink open and he peers up, searching for Tony. Only the man is on the floor with him in Peter’s other bean bag chair.

Tony repeats his question, “Why’d you end up on the floor?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs and rubs his eyes, “tired, I guess.”

Peter takes extra time to wake up fully because that feeling of uncertainty returns with a vengeance.

“Hey.”

He peeks up at Tony, hoping he won’t have to speak.

“Is it okay if we talk?”

“Just… talk?” he reiterates.

Tony nods, “Yep. I lost my cool earlier and I wanted to apologize.”

“So I’m not grounded?”

Tony chuckles, a small sound of genuine amusement layered in something a little darker that Peter can’t identify. “Oh no; you’re still grounded,” he replies, but when Peter groans at the revelation the mechanic holds up his hands. “Will you hear me out?”

After a beat, Peter nods.

“My parents’ death anniversary was yesterday.” Tony states simply, tone casual but it belies the enormity of the statement. 

As if a locking mechanism slotting into place after a couple attempts, Peter understands. Tony’s behavior yesterday is beginning to make sense. He doesn’t understand why it didn’t click until Tony spelled it out because Peter knows a little bit about the deaths of the older Starks, who he supposes would have been his grandparents, surely he knew their deaths were December 16th. It’s weird taking his knowledge about Howard and Maria Stark and applying it toward himself. He didn’t think.

“I— I’ve never learned to handle that day very well,” comes the admission, quiet and reluctant. “It’s been twenty-five years and I still struggle. I’m shit when it comes to talking about my own feelings, Pete.” here Tony scrubs at his face. “It hit me… harder this year for a couple reasons.”

Tentative about crossing a line and screwing up this conversation, Peter stammers out, “What, uh, what reasons?”

“You and the quarter century milestone.”

“Oh,” he breathes. Then nods as if he comprehends what his guardian is getting at; he can’t imagine being in that position where more time has passed without Ben than Peter had with him.

Tony’s expression is morose tinted with softness, his lips quirking ever so slightly at the corners.

“I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday.” Tony breaks the silence before it festers and multiples. “I am also sorry for how I handled some of our discussion earlier. I did so poorly.”

Slowly at first Peter shakes his head. He wants to tell Tony he has nothing to apologize for, not when it comes to grieving his parents. Time softens edges. It does not take away his urge to say something so instead Peter starts rambling.

“Mom never really gave me rules to follow.” he begins, stating the obvious, and Tony’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the turn in conversation. “Well, she did, but they got lax at I got older. Eventually I just started to figure out what was appropriate. A lot of trial and error. I really don’t sneak out, though. I usually go out patrolling after school; never late. I couldn’t chance anyone finding out. Ned told me once I was lucky for not having a curfew but really I was home early to make sure Mom was home, too.”

“That’s a lot to unpack.” Tony says after a few moments processing the word vomit Peter just spoke into existence.

He wants to be embarrassment until he realizes Tony’s open and vulnerable. He still can’t pinpoint why he carried on the way he did. Well, besides the fact he’s been wanting to have some form of this conversation with Tony for quite some time.

Tony shifts on the bean bag until he’s leaning in Peter’s direction. “You don’t need to be the parent anymore, Peter. That’s not your job.”

At first he feels the same defensive, pinprick sensation he felt whenever Ben brought this conversation up, though it quickly dissipates. “I get that,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you—” he sucks in a huge breath, contemplating if he should back out of confessing something so monumental in his life. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve worked myself up waiting up on her; making myself sick, both physically and emotionally. It’s leftover, for the most part. She works a lot now and when I left Ben and May’s… I dunno, it’s like I never really left that mentality behind, y’know? It’s like I didn’t give her a second chance.”

“She broke your trust.”

He nods once, “Yeah, she did.”

“It still isn’t your responsibility to look after her.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. No, honey, it isn’t your responsibility; that’s always been hers.” Tony speaks earnestly, shaking his head and his eyes fill up, reaching out for Peter. He takes Tony’s hand. “You need to focus on enjoying yourself; on being a teenager; on school and your friends; on growing up and the life you have before you. I know it may seem like you’ve never had the opportunity to be a kid, Pete; but you do. You’re fifteen and you still have so much ahead of you.”

Peter bites down on his lip, worrying about which point to bring up. He isn’t sure how Tony will take either so he proceeds cautiously. “I don’t know how.”

“To be a kid?”

He shrugs.

“Not worrying?”

He nods after a moment.

“It sucks,” his guardian admits. “It’s something we can’t let win. It’s not a pretty path to go down because it’ll consume you.”

“What if…,” he glances down at his lap, unwilling to see disappointment in Tony’s eyes again, “but what if I really enjoy being Spider-Man?”

A gust of air comes from Tony’s side and Peter listens as his heartbeat increases rapidly.

Nothing happens for the longest time. He fidgets, eyes trained on his lap because he refuses to see how his selfishness is impacting Tony. Peter would not be surprised to learn a decade passed before Tony decides to speak again.

“Your safety is my biggest priority. I _cannot_ let anything happen to you, Peter.”

He sucks in his cheeks until they rest between his teeth. Once he releases, he pleads, “So my powers mean nothing? I can _help_ people.”

“I can’t,” the other man starts then stops. “I can’t talk to you about this when I’m this upset. We’ll bring it back up once your grounding is lifted.”

Peter wants to whine about the unfairness of it. Because it _isn’t_ fair. Until he picks up on the fact that Tony isn’t closing the topic for good. He may not know his timeline but there will be an end date in sight. He supposes he can wait.

“Do you know why I grounded you?”

Peter reluctantly says, “Because I snuck out.”

“Partially right. It’s because you lied to me, snuck out, and put yourself in danger.”

Peter wants to point out that Tony puts himself in danger all the time going out as Iron Man. He keeps the thought to himself.

“How’s your side?”

He shrugs off Tony’s concern.

Tony sighs.

“It’s healing slow, but it’ll be fine,” he offers up. “How’d you even know about it?”

“I have my ways,” is Tony’s cryptic answer.

Peter sags back into his bean bag chair.

Tony clears his throat, “We need to talk to your mother about this.”

“What? Why?” he sits up in alarm, heart beating against his ribcage in a plea to escape. “She doesn’t need to know!”

“She does,” Tony contradicts him, pinning him with an unimpressed gaze. “If she has you at all during break, then she needs to know why you’re grounded.”

“I’m grounded all break?”

“Minimum,” the older man confirms. “She really was working yesterday. I talked to her before I came in here.”

“But you didn’t tell her?” he questions, dubious and confused.

“Not over the phone, no.” Tony pulls a face at the idea. “She asked if she could have you on Christmas day. I told her I’d discuss it with you first. But I did say that if you agree to it, that you could stay with her from New Year’s Eve until the second or third.”

“It’s my choice?”

“Of course it’s your choice.”

Peter thinks it over. “Um, can I see her on Christmas day?” At Tony’s nod of confirmation, Peter plows on so he doesn’t lose his courage. “But I don’t wanna stay the night there. I wanna stay here with you and Pepper for Christmas Eve and Christmas night. I think— I think I may have made the wrong decision wanting to stay with her this whole weekend. Maybe a slow re-introduction is better.” 

“Okay,” agrees Tony and if he’s befuddled by Peter’s decision he does his best not to show it and for that Peter’s relieved. “We won’t bring up your… extracurriculars on Christmas. If you do, however, decide to stay with Mary into the New Year, we will need to bring it up then.”

Peter makes a face and doesn’t hide it from Tony.

Tony isn’t sympathetic and shrugs back.

He starts shifting around on the bean bag until he’s in some form of a ball, side of his face resting against his stacked arms, staring at Tony as he tries to decipher the man’s mood now that the conversation seems to have calmed. “Is Pepper upset with me?”

Tony snorts. “If by upset you mean ridiculously exasperated with the Stark genes, then the answer is yes.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That Pepper most likely won’t have a child with me for quite some time.”

“You two are talking about having a baby?”

“Eh, not really,” Tony is blasé with his retort, shrugging it off as if it isn’t a big deal.

And maybe it isn’t for him but it causes Peter’s head to twirl.

Tony stands from his position on the floor, more stumbling than graceful movements, but the man pivots and offers Peter his hand. “Up you get; let’s finally get the day rolling.”

Peter takes Tony’s hand and allows his guardian to heft his weight up from the ground with little assistance on his end.

“Alright child o’ mine, we need to put weight on you.” Tony says once Peter is standing in front of him. “Go shower and meet me in the living room. We’re watching movies all day.”

Peter tilts his head, “Aren’t I grounded?” 

“Do you not wanna hang out with me and be bored for the rest of time? Oh, no! No no no no, that’s fine with me. My time is valuable after all.” he talks over Peter, his smile widening as his voice increases in volume to make certain Peter doesn’t have the chance to correct Tony. “I’m just trying to be nice and make your grounding go by faster. But if you insist.”

“I’m looking for clarification,” he squints up at Tony.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’ll tell FRIDAY to sell your Lego collections online.”

“It’s beneath my usual duties, boss.” answers FRIDAY.

“Yet you’re still programmed to do it.”

Peter makes a face before the A.I. has the chance at rebuttal and Peter witnesses another round of back-and-forth between creator and creation. “I’m going, I’m going,” he jabs his thumb in the direction of the bathroom first then walks backward. “Don’t sell anything. Please.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mouths back.

Peter turns around and takes a few steps.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

When Tony doesn’t start speaking right away Peter spins to face him.

“I need to say this,” he speaks under his breath and it isn’t meant for Peter’s ears. “Just because I suck at talking about my parents… I don’t want you to feel that way about Ben. I know how important he’s been in your life and I don’t ever want you feeling afraid talking about him with me, to show how you feel.” 

“Because,” breathes Peter, contemplating then presses on, “because we’re a team.”

“Exactly.”

Room grows heavy.

Then Tony rolls his eyes and shoos him along. “Twelve minutes and counting.”

He mouths _twelve?_ in bewilderment but he can’t ask why his time limit is so specific because his guardian has already left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what better place than [tumblr](https://ardenskyedarcy221b.tumblr.com) to scream at me???


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta thank ciaconnaa for her endless support: you da best fren!

Peter’s staring at the box on his desk for several minutes now. Tony told him after lunch that it was delivered so Peter took it back to his bedroom, set it down, then proceeded to sit on his bed and stare at it rather forlornly. It has May’s name on the return address and it’s making him rather nervous to open it. Sure, he’s kept somewhat in contact with his aunt the last few weeks…well, a month to the date…if sporadic texts count toward communication. But everything has been weird and off and then he’s still grounded.

May’s never mailed him a package.

In the past, if Ben and May weren’t around for the holidays or Peter’s birthday, it had always been his uncle’s handwriting that greeted him. It’s a kick to the gut the sight of loopy print instead of blocky letters.

So he keeps on staring.

Eventually his curiosity gets the best of him. Peter locates his phone somewhere between his bundle of blankets and taps open his aunt’s contact information.

By the fourth ring she answers, “Hey, Pete.”

“Hey! I got your package.”

“Awesome. Have you opened it yet?”

Peter’s brows furrow at her question. “What? No. It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Well,” his aunt breathes into the receiver and Peter wonders what she is doing because there’s quite a bit of background noise that he can’t decipher, “you can open it tonight if you’d like. I’m working tomorrow.”

“You are?” he cuts off any further explanation.

“Yeah. I’m gonna be fine, bug. It’s my holiday this year. You can wait and open it tomorrow if that’s what you want; but you could open it tonight and we could video chat?”

Peter mulls over her suggestion. “What do you want me to do?”

A small laugh, more a puff of air than anything else, echoes in his eardrum. “It’s your call, my love.”

“If I switch to video call right now, are you free?”

“I’m not home right now.”

“Oh.” he pouts.

“How about this,” suggests May. “How about you open up the gift now and I’ll give you some time and call you later tonight?”

He shrugs then says, “Sure. I don’t wanna take up your time.” 

“You’re not.” May says. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Later.”

The call ends. 

And Peter’s back to staring at the box as if he could unravel its mysteries without opening it.

He plucks out a pair of scissors and slides the metal along middle and the edges of tape until he’s able to open the package. Inside are wrapped gifts, an envelope with his name on it sticking out on the left side, and at the very top a note. Peter reaches for the note first, unfolds it, and plays with the frayed edges at the top. Under his breath he reads May’s curly-script words,

“Open the green package first. Ben’s been holding onto this since February. Not sure if you remember but you never finished your quarter collection.” Peter pauses as he waits for the memories to flood back and when they do there’s a small, _“Oh no.”_

He tugs out the only green package in the box. It’s rather snug, fitted down at the bottom, and just barely smaller than the package itself. Based on its rectangular shape, Peter has an idea what it is and unwraps it slowly and as soon as he sees Pennsylvania his hunch is confirmed.

“No way.” he breathes, pulling off the remainder of the wrapping paper to see the United States map decked out with fifty coins. It’s a little bit worn along the edges but that has everything to do with the fact that Peter started collecting coins when he was six and dabbled with it for the next couple years. In school he was assigned to collect as many coins as he could based on his birth year; Peter _loved_ that homework assignment and Uncle Ben had suggested Peter start a quarter collection. So he did. He collected forty-nine states then gave up when the fiftieth never appeared.

Until now. His eyes roam all over and when he gets to New Mexico he squints down at the quarter in disbelief. Peter gave up; Ben never did and that shiny quarter is proof. 

He sucks in air, not realizing how upset a quarter has made him until this moment, and his body trembles, chin wobbles, and his vision crosses then blurs. He blinks and the tears start rolling and won’t stop.

He does not have any energy to open the remaining two gifts.

Honestly Peter anticipates FRIDAY snitching on him and Tony bursting into his room, wondering why Peter’s crying and how he can help. He doesn’t want that to happen so try as he might Peter holds in the noises escaping from his mouth by burying his face into his shoulder. If there has been any micro-healing in the last month, which there really hasn’t been because Peter’s tried to keep himself busy, that scab has been prodded and picked at until it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and infection is setting in now. His middle _aches,_ shuddering with memories of Ben’s last breaths and every single one Peter’s taken after that moment. Peter wants to find every last reminder in his bedroom that ties to Ben, gather it close, and let go; have a good cry, loud and not hidden. Not hidden away like Ben’s last gift to Peter: the snare drum is at his mother’s place. His fifteenth birthday will forever be soured by his mother’s rehab stint; her release a few days later eclipses the great day Ben and May created for him and Peter _hates_ that realization. Cherry on the melted sundae, of course, is that will always be Peter’s last birthday with Ben. He wants a hug, _needs_ one. All he ends up doing is muffling any nosies that escape.

_Don’t forget about Tony and Pepper,_ his mind supplies, _it’s not safe to let go._

Movements are slow, careful and mindful of where he walks, Peter maneuvers himself back toward his bed until he is buried beneath a mountain pile, gift propped up against the wall and two pillows, and he zeroes in on it, tuning out the world.

_Upset over a quarter,_ one part of his brain ridicules though Peter’s gaze stays firm on the simple design.

Exhaustion settles across his face and shoulders some indeterminate time later; the moment Peter thinks he has finished crying a brand new round of tears come and he is back to square one.

At the fringes of his hearing, Peter listens as Tony pads down the hallway until he reaches the opened doorway of Peter’s bedroom. Because Peter isn’t facing that side of his room, he can’t make out Tony’s expression but he is waiting for the older man to speak as he inhales deeply right before entering as if he had something to say.

“Pete,” falls from Tony’s mouth and Peter briefly wonders what the older man had to say before coming in but that thought saps all his energy.

He cannot reply.

Tony shuffles inside, his steps soft and hesitant, until the bed dips with added weight. At this point Peter knows Tony must have saw the gift and must be wondering why he’s distraught over a bunch of lousy quarters. Peter can’t find the will to explain, waiting on the axe to fall and Tony’s confusion to manifest.

No words come to life.

Tony stays where he is at, sat on the edge of the bed with one hand settled atop Peter’s stacked knees, not questioning the silence that up until his arrival had been suffocating Peter quicker than a blanket over the face. Now, though, his presence refuses to allow the silence to fester, to grow, to eat him alive. It remains stagnant, humid and tangible, though it does not manifest into an anxiety attack. His presence keeps it contained and despite his head’s need for protestations, Peter experiences a twinge of gratitude in his chest. 

Peter snakes a hand out of his blankets and circles loosely around Tony’s wrist, their combined weight pressing his knees further into the mattress.

“I miss him so much,” he paints the words on the air, forming from his chapped lips and breathes the semi-truth into existence. He will never be able to articulate the loss, but he imagines he doesn’t have to fully form the experience, because Tony knows.

Tony squeezes his hand in return, pressure constricting and grounding all at once.

He stays with him until he phone rings with an incoming video call form May. Peter stares at his screen, debating.

“You good?”

Peter turns his attention to Tony, pauses, then nods, “Maybe.”

Tony pats his knee, rising off the bed without another word. He offers Peter a tight-lipped smile then exits his bedroom.

He watches him leave before accepting May’s call.

His aunt’s face fills the screen, her smile drooping when she sees him. “Hey, bug.”

“Hey,” he responds in kind, not bothering to smile but trying to sound light. What a pair the two of them are right now. “Thank you for the gifts.”

“I wish I was there to give you a hug.”

His eyes close, picturing it: wrapped in May’s arms, her floral perfume complimenting her natural scent nicely, and it hurts his heart when he automatically sees Ben wrapped around them both. “A hug would be great.”

 

***

 

By mid-morning on Christmas, Peter is bundled up and sitting in the backseat of Tony’s second favorite Audi as the Stark family heads toward Queens. Traffic isn’t as congested as it could be for a Sunday, though city life continues to swirl onward. Snow falls from the sky and lands in ugly slushes on the sidewalk and roadways. The trip is becoming familiar. Plus it allows Peter to daydream out the window as the sights distort together, painting an abstract memory of buildings and people and changing seasons.

His breath fogs up the window.

Pepper vetoes Tony’s Christmas playlist because all the songs are popular hits.

“This one’s a classic!”

“My eardrums are bleeding, Tony.”

“Who’s the drama queen now, hmm?”

“Don’t even think about calling me Scrooge. We can still be in the spirit, but I’d like to keep it traditional.”

“Mariah Carey isn’t traditional?”

“Not like Frank Sinatra.”

The adults’ light bickering is comforting background noise and as Peter continues to peer out the window, gazing at the frozen solid river, part of his brain takes note of their words,yet he makes no move to join them. All morning Tony and Pepper have been in a playful mood, all wide smiles and high-pitched laughs as they first opened presents then made cinnamon rolls together. (His morning was weird because Peter opened more presents in a single holiday ever and nothing quite as sentimental as Ben’s New Mexico quarter and toolbox kit and May’s knitted socks and scrapbook, though that isn’t to say Tony and Pepper are poor gift givers.) It had been contagious until Tony announced it was time to head over to Queens.

Eventually the car stops and the building in front of him is his mother’s apartment complex. Tony continues crooning Sinatra from the front seat. His singing is soft, something new that Peter has never heard, his guardian’s profile twisted to face the passenger seat, expression full of warmth and adoration he is beginning to see more and more on the man’s face, and seeing as how Peter’s directly seated behind Pepper he can’t make out the woman’s reaction. He does see Pepper’s hand reach for Tony’s forearm and her engagement ring catches light and glints tiny rainbow stars in his direction.

He smiles.

As soon as Tony releases the final note he turns to face Peter and says, “Unless you want picked up early, plan still to be picked up at six-thirty for dinner?”

Peter chews on the inside of his lips for a beat before nodding, “Yeah.”

“Great! Want me to walk up with you?”

“No,” he shakes his head, reaches for the somewhat-lumpy gift he wrapped himself with Pepper’s supervision last night and places his gloved hand on the door handle, “it’s cold out.”

Tony rolls his eyes.

“Have a great time, Peter, and we’ll see you later.” Pepper wishes him well, turning around in her seat to offer him a kind smile.

“Thanks, Pepper. See you!” he calls over his shoulder, opens the door and scurries out, then slams it shut.

Their car doesn’t drive away until Peter’s inside the building.

Not trusting the elevator, Peter takes the stairs before he ends up standing outside 3C. His hand automatically reaches for the brass knob but the movement halts midair. It doesn’t feel like home and uncomfortableness tickles his stomach; so he winds up standing with his right hand extended out awkwardly as he contemplates whether he should walk in or knock. Upon remembering he didn’t grab his key chain, Peter knocks.

Mary answers, decked out in a red sweater and jeans. “Merry Christmas, baby,” her smile pulls out a dimple and she tilts her head in silent offer for Peter to step inside.

He does, twisting around to face his mother as she closes the front door behind him. “Hi. Um, yeah, Merry Christmas.” then he offers up his gift to her with both hands, not quite knowing what to do, with a muffled, “Here.”

His mother takes it without question and pivots around to head into the living room. He watches her go and sees that she’s set up a small tree, decorated with old and well-known ornaments. There are a smattering of gifts situated on the plain tree skirt and Mary sets his down among the pile.

“Well,” his mother hums as she stands, turning to face him and placing her hands on her hips, “have you eaten?”

He nods.

“Want hot chocolate first?”

He shrugs then nods again, “Sure, that’s fine.”

Peter waits to see if Mary will make for the kitchen first. There is a beat where he thinks that he’ll have to make it himself, which is fine, but he has enough time to admit he’s growing accustomed to making stuff with Tony and Pepper together. Just when he’s certain he is meant to make the drink himself, his mother shifts forward and meanders onto the tile floor that separates the open room into the kitchen area. Mary reaches for the kit then pulls out two mugs. Peter waffles until he decides to pull out the whipped cream and marshmallows.

“You can sit down; I’ve got the rest from here.”

Only Peter doesn’t know what to do with his mother’s direction. As he hovers by the countertop that isn’t being used, a piece of him feels like he is free-falling. It’s the first time he has been back in the apartment in a month and he is all of a sudden painstakingly aware of it. They are acting as if nothing monumental has occurred. Is the hot chocolate a peace offering? It’s the cheap, store bought kind that Peter’s grown up on: nothing special. It certainly isn’t a symbol to buy his affection. Though perhaps it is a kind gesture. Nothing more, nothing less. Peter concludes it’s his anxiety rampaging again and he is overthinking.

Still, it does nothing to diminish the fact this is the first time Peter’s been back in over a month.

And he doesn’t feel like he fits within these four walls.

“Handful of marshmallows, as you like,” his mother’s low voice pulls Peter out of his downward spiral and he blinks up to see an indulgent look settling along the lines in Mary’s face. 

At the sight of his hot chocolate he has to admit she did give him a lot of tiny marshmallows. He picks it up, wrapping his palms around the mug and immediately flinches, but he saps up the heat and suffers through it.

“Have you had a great day so far?”

He hums around the lip of the mug, purposefully taking a sip as soon as Mary started speaking.

A dark brow rises in query, “What kind of stuff have you gotten?” 

“Some new clothes,” he starts off on the safe side, then lists off as vaguely as he can once Mary encourages him to continue, “and well, a couple new Lego sets, and Pepper got me a membership to MoMA, then Ben got me a new tool kit while May made me a scrapbook.”

“Mmm,” his mother nods and sips her own cup, “sounds as if you’ve had a busy and great morning after all.”

Peter forces a smile, though his cheeks twinges.

His cup is halfway finished when his mother directs him to sit before the Christmas tree. Peter debates abandoning his beverage before taking it with him, settling the mug down on the coffee table first, then situating himself near the tree. Multicolored lights shine dully into Peter’s left eye and as he fidgets around, trying to get comfortable, an ornament catches his attention. It’s a snowflake covered in glitter and nestled in the middle is a picture of him.

“Jeez,” he breathes out, leaning closer to get a better look at it. He must be three or four, judging by his chubby cheeks, hair a curly mess, and chocolate sauce smeared and covering the lower half of his face. His eyes are squinted because he is smiling so hard, hamming it up for the camera with an exaggerated head tilt. 

“One of my favorite pictures of you,” in-tones his mother, sitting down across from him. Peter turns to face her and he’s a bit surprised to see such a genuine smile on her face as she remains focused on the ornament.

“Was it someone’s birthday?” he asks, making an assumption based on the chocolate covering his face.

“No,” she says then meets his gaze, “no that was taken on my second wedding anniversary.”

“Huh.”

“We can coo over your baby pictures later,” his mother is quick to change the subject, “let’s exchange gifts first.”

“Alright,” he agrees, clasping his hands in his lap. “Where do you want me to start?”

Mary’s hazel eyes are bright as they flick away from Peter and they settle on a package closer to him. “You can start here if you want,” she points at a medium sized box wrapped in light blue paper, adorned with snowmen and snowflakes, “but if you find the silver package save that for last.”

Peter nods and begins opening his gifts.

Self-consciousness lingers, effecting his movements and his reactions. A tightness forms in his belly and it makes him aware that being fifteen means his gifts aren’t always going to be extravagant; he’s been aware of their money problem for a couple years now, but it’s never stopped his mother from trying to spoil him. This year, of course, is much different because the day has been split and while he doesn’t think Tony and Pepper went all out on him, their gifts certainly _did_ cost more than he’s used to receiving, even when his mother had a more stable, higher paying job. As a kid he hated getting clothes, but now he understands they are a necessity.

So he tries to make conversation as he tears into wrapping paper, stilted and awkward; blessedly, his mother indulges him by acting as if this is normal behavior.

Toward the end of his gifts, Peter asks Mary if she wants to open hers. He needs a moment to have the attention off himself. Peter didn’t know what to get her; he gets allowance now from Tony, and he barely touches the money, though it did make shopping a little easier. He got his mother a bracelet with both their birthstones. Pepper okayed it, too. So he doesn’t really watch her as she rips his poor attempt at wrapping apart and opens the jewelry box.

Mary slips it on, admires it, before telling him, “It’s lovely.”

Peter peeks up at her, pleased.

Two more left.

By the end, Mary holds a small silver box between her palms, eyes turned downward as if contemplating something intense, and exhales deeply. “This,” she starts, “is a hand-me-down.”

Peter sits up, intrigued. “Okay.”

“I’ll explain it after you open,” she hands him the gift. “I just needed to preface.”

He nods at her explanation and takes it, ignoring how his mother twists her fingers once her hands are free. In order to take the focus off her, his index finger immediately slides beneath a wrapped corner and lifts. Once he tears off paper and tugs open the lid, Peter peers inside to see a pocket watch. After a couple more seconds staring at it, he reaches inside and picks it up with gentle movements.

“I’m not sure if you remember, but that was Grandad Jack’s watch.”

Peter furrows his brows because he doesn’t remember it, inspecting first the front side then flips it around. On the back is engraving. _Time will test your character and courage. Have heart, dear one._ Beneath the cursive print are five names. _William. Arthur. James. Jack. Peter._

All at once Peter realizes he is holding a Fitzpatrick family heirloom and breathes out a shaky, “Wow.” His brain buzzes, questions formulating and dissipating as quickly as they appear and yet Peter’s attention remains fixated on the ticking face of his new watch. His initial reaction is torn between being impressed with a piece of history in his palm and wondering where in the hell he’d ever use something like a pocket watch. Under the surface Peter listens to a mechanical symphony. 

“Was this… my great-great-great grandfather’s watch?” he poses the question to his mother, titling his head in contemplation before turning his attention toward her.

“No,” Mary shakes her head, “Dad left you a letter inside detailing everything. He wanted to give it to you on your tenth birthday, but you were too young and… well, you’re mature and responsible now, so it’s been refurbished with your name.” his mother takes a deep breath, pushing on from faltering over the mention of her father as if nothing happened. “From what I remember, that had been my great-grandfather’s watch that his father gave to him when Arthur signed up for the war.”

“Which war would that have been, the first world war?”

“Yes. It has been passed down from generation to generation, from father to eldest son.”

“Grandad didn’t give it to you as his only child?”

His mother looks away, hair curtaining her face and closing off her expression, so Peter can’t figure out if his questioned bothered her or not. She pauses, then she says softly, “I didn’t want it.”

Peter’s fist closes opens and closes over the pocket watch several times. Her tone is not open to question her further on why she never felt inclined to take it or even to ask where it’s been all these years since Granddad’s passing. He doesn’t think on it too long. He moves to situate it back in the box, he notes a worn yellow note, folded crisply, down at the bottom that he missed initially.

He’ll read it later.

“Thanks, Mom.”

His mother’s smile says it all, soft and wane. “You’re welcome, Peter. Now c’mon, let’s see if we can watch _It’s a Wonderful Life._ ”

 

***

 

Tony’s style of grounding means Peter has a lot of down time. They watch movies together, avoiding holiday themed and sci-fi altogether, and eat a lot of popcorn. Until they are busted by Pepper, who reminds Tony that grounding generally includes time away from _all_ electronics and fun activities. Tony tells her not to be a spoil-sport then Pepper raises an immaculate eyebrow and that’s the end of it. So until Pepper goes back to work, Tony helps Peter with some homework and study for that final midterm he’ll have to take once he goes back to school next week.

By Wednesday, Peter concludes waiting for paint to dry would be more entertaining because then he could at least deduce the chemicals used in the paint instead of staring longingly at the television, waiting for Pepper to leave. His guardian’s fiancée drives a hard bargain and doesn’t let Peter sleep in passed 8:30 and she’s been going into the office late to make sure he’s up and eats breakfast. It’s too much fussing, really. So once Pepper leaves after nine for work and Tony decides to spend yet another day working from home, Peter gives into his boredom and broaches the topic of staying a few days with his mother to break up the monotony. Not that is the reason he gives Tony.

It is then decided Peter will go to Queens tomorrow and stay until Saturday night. Then Peter breaks out the chess board and follows Tony around the penthouse until the older man agrees to play.

Peter loses _soundly_ the first game. But he claims it’s because it has been twenty years since the last time he played and asks for a rematch. Their rematches continue until Pepper comes home after six. Peter’s won only two and he’s pretty sure Tony let him, not that he has any proof.

By the following afternoon, Peter is antsy. He packed last night after he bid Tony and Pepper good night so he doesn’t have any busy work to keep his hands preoccupied. Once he begins fiddling with the length of his made comforter, Peter stops what he is doing and goes to pout on the couch until Tony says it’s time to leave. He’s had all three meals at home because his mother had plans until after seven and Peter is _bored._ He can’t eat. He’s too antsy to build something from any of his Lego kits. Nothing holds his attention.

He still can’t wait that long before he’s back in his bedroom and gathering all of his bags together. Which takes all of five seconds. So that’s where Tony finds him, sprawled out on his made bed and counting down the time until he gets a change in scenery. Tony shuffles further into the room and winds up sitting at the edge of Peter’s work desk.

“Knock knock.”

“I heard you coming. Please, by all means, come in and take a seat wherever you’d like.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Nmph.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

_“Yes,_ I’m sure.”

“Hey, no need to get snippy with me when I’m just asking you a question.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“You’re hovering.”

“I am _not,”_ scoffs Tony, first flailing his arms for emphasis then crossing them over his chest, as he shifts his body weight around sitting atop Peter’s desk, “ _hovering._ I’m all the way over here and you’re over there.”

Peter holds back the urge to scream and laugh, not sure what kind of noise that would make, as he gazes up at his ceiling before replying, “You’re being a helicopter again.” 

Tony sniffs. “I know you’re excited for a change of venue,” he starts, “but I think you’ve forgotten part of your grounding deal.”

Peter sits up, throwing out his hands to slow the fast movement. “I didn’t forget; I was kinda hoping you’d forgotten.”

Tony’s smile is all teeth.

He grunts, tossing himself back onto the bed. “Does she really have to know?”

“Oh yeah,” comes the agreement followed up by Tony slapping his thighs and Peter listens as the older man stands up, “I can’t let you leave and do whatever you please at your mother’s when you’re meant to be reflecting on bad behavior. And plus, let’s be real here, I am not bad parent material; I’m the cool parent.”

Peter covers his face with his hands, grumbling in displeasure, though he hopes his arms cover up his amused grin that tugs into existence at Tony’s self proclamation. If Tony’s chuckling is any indication, then the older man saw and Peter will never be able to face the man properly again. Better to face the music at any rate he decides and turns his head until he’s facing in Tony’s direction, waiting until his guardian makes eye contact and he says matter of fact, “You’re not bad.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, a startled look etching along the lines of his face.

“You’re not,” he repeats, maintaining his tone of voice without losing the strength of the inflection. “Maybe on the fussy side, but I’m not mad at you for grounding me.”

It seems Peter has rendered Tony silent. After a few extra beats, the engineer nods once.

“Can we go now?”

“Yeah, grab your stuff and we’ll head out.”

Peter springs up and off the bed. Tony assists by grabbing Peter’s duffle bag and shouldering it, though thankfully it isn’t stuffed to the gills. Peter’s planning on bringing majority of his belongings back with him now that he’ll be here full time. At least the stuff he wants with him all the time that he doesn’t want to be replaced, like his snare he got for his birthday, despite the urge he wants to quit band next semester. Once everything is in hand, Tony ushers Peter into the hallway then toward the elevator.

They settle into the car, Peter clicking his seatbelt in place, and he gets out his phone and texts his mother.

Tony puts the car into drive and begins edging out of the parking garage.

“Thanks for taking me.”

Tony swivels his head to pin Peter with a concerned, slightly exasperated expression as if saying _why are you thanking me?_ and remains silent.

Peter fills in the gaps. “It’s just far is all.” he defends. “I know I can’t drive yet and—”

“Honestly, kid, I don’t mind taking you places if that’s what’s got you worrying.”

He shrugs.

“Come on, next music lesson. FRI, darling, please pick up where we left off on Pete’s playlist.”

“Playing now,” FRIDAY intones and the colors on the touch screen shift from blue to purple to blue again.

Peter sends Tony a giant grin, but the man is too preoccupied to notice. They are schooling each other on what constitutes as good music and Tony’s surprise never gets old when Peter already knows some of his favorites. Peter’s taste in music is eclectic, but he favors rock and indie, despite listening to almost anything.

His phone buzzes in his hand. 

**Not far behind you. Can’t wait to see you!**

He decides not to reply back, instead tunes back in on Tony’s musical lesson because it’s a guitar solo he’s never heard before now.

He misses Queens, he realizes as they cross into the borough. He misses the atmosphere, the familiarity of home, being able to recognize multiple businesses as they pass. But it isn’t as if he’s moved out of state, let alone out of the city. Manhattan isn’t bad. Busier, certainly, but it offers abundance more activities. Means Spider-Man would be busier in Manhattan. _Huh,_ he’s stumped; that’s going to have to be something he mulls over, whether or not Spider-Man needs to change boroughs like Peter Parker. 

Tony finds a parking spot right in front of the apartment building. They are out of the car and inside fairly quickly, Peter breathing onto his hands, wishing he’d quit forgetting where his gloves are all the damned time. Peter nods his head in the direction of the stairwell instead of the elevator and Tony motions for Peter to lead the way. He’s glad that the third floor isn’t too far away; whenever Ben and May’s elevator has been out of commission in the past, climbing six flights is a different story. (Not so much for him anymore, though, a silver lining from that spider bite.) Tony’s breath stays even behind him all the way up, the only noise between them.

“Mom may not be here yet,” Peter informs Tony over his shoulder after they start walking down the hallway.

“Oh really?”

“S’what she said,” he continues, slotting the key into the lock and pushing open 3C’s door, “though she didn’t tell me where she was at, so I dunno how long she’ll be.”

“It’s fine, Pete,” Tony closes the door behind himself. “We’ll wait.”

Peter faces Tony and has no idea what to do: in the time he’s been staying at the penthouse, they have established the budding stages of normalcy. Here, though, in his mother’s apartment he never quite obtained a feeling of home, Peter isn’t sure if he should act as if Tony’s a guest or what. Peter no longer feels comfortable here and yet… and yet it’s meant to be his home, too.

Weird. 

Tony saunters in the living, sitting on the sofa without so much as waiting for direction. Peter follows his guardian’s lead, pulling out his cell before sitting. There isn’t much for him to do on it, of course, but Tony had FRIDAY lift the band on two of his phone games so there are small consolations.

Peter loses track of time to the tune of his game and Tony tapping on his own phone.

“I’m gonna try calling her.”

Peter’s eye lift away from his phone and nods distractedly at Tony, “Sure.” 

It rings and rings until it goes to voicemail. Tony doesn’t leave a message. He does not make a big deal about the lack of answer, either, so they go back to co-existing in the apartment’s silence. A part of him relaxes further into the cushions because that means he can wait on breaking big news for a little bit longer.

Peter switches games. 

Tony’s heart beats like the Northstar home. 

It’s nice, like being back at the penthouse, minus Pepper. It’s safe, too, because Peter just likes co-existence with those he loves. Sure, he’s chatty; he also takes comfort in silences, in the fact that he knows someone so well that silence does not hide faults but drapes like a weighted blanket. Peter isn’t quite sure why he’s unconsciously made Tony his focal point. Perhaps it is due to the fact the genius calms Peter, settles his anxieties and understands him. He doesn’t dwell for long.

Down below, cars zip by and passersby gossip. Car doors slam. Bells ring out their announcement of customers. Life breathes all around him.

Perhaps an hour passes, he guesses.

Peter allows everything to settle into white noise. Like most of his car rides with his family recently, it passes through him where a piece of him notices but the whole of his attention isn’t pulled there. It ebbs and flows much like the Hudson in summer months. Until something demands his attention. Footsteps. Heartbeats. He’s lost his calming rhythm. Of course, he hasn’t been around for a month, so perhaps someone new moved in that he has not identified and familiarized; but the closer the steps come, Peter knows the heartbeats are not his mother’s or anyone else he has met. If Peter’s met someone at least once, there is a piece of his brain that catalogs their unique sound waves for later comparisons, and he innately knows these particular hearts are unknown. And they are close, far too close now for comfort.

Without thought Peter announces, “Someone’s coming.” 

His statement must come out flat because out the corner of his eye Peter sees Tony send him a befuddled look but it does not last; because like Peter predicted someone is at the door. Only instead of his mother unlocking the door there are a series of knocks. Peter looks to Tony, phone forgotten.

With a shrug, the engineer stands and meanders toward the front door, opening it and his back hides who happens to be on the other side. Peter guesses multiple visitors based on the two heartbeats that flutter toward him like a growing arpeggio. He strains his neck to see past Tony’s figure, but all he catches is black before his guardian shifts and blocks his view again. Peter relaxes into the cushions.

He blocks out the murmuration at first because he hears whomever is at the door fumble at the sight of Tony Stark. It must be a wrong door, Peter concludes, because he doubts his mother gets much company. Halfway paying attention to the conversation and his game, Peter wonders if one day he could make one holographic because that would—

Peter picks the worst time to zero back into the conversation.

“—identify Ms. Fitzpatrick-Parker down at the morgue.”

_No._

He sits up as his phone slips through his fingers to land on his lap. He must have misunderstood.

“What happened?” he hears Tony ask, confusion lining his words and making them sharp.

“The car she was riding in broke down. It appears that while she and the driver were investigating under the hood and she may have been moving back toward the driver’s side to grab something, another car veered into the shoulder and hit her.”

Nothing makes sense— Peter hears the account but he is struggling to place who his mother could have been with because she hasn’t had a car in years, long before rehab, because it’s not worth the hassle she’s always said, so why would a car break down. Why would she be in a broken down car? That couldn’t be right. She text him she was on her way!

As he processes and tries to deny them simultaneously, Peter listens as Tony inquiries about the driver and found out the driver had been taken to the hospital.

“We found identification inside the car, but we need someone to properly identify her.”

“I can—”

“No, she can’t—” his thoughts verbalize but he can’t finish the thought _because it can’t be real._

If his heart sat in his throat it has since sunk into the acidic pit of his stomach. He stands but his balance is off, tilting and whirling like it does after an entire day spent down at Coney Island, and he may fall still but all he can see is Tony twist around. Peter’s phone falls instead of him, thunking on the ground— he hears that but nothing beyond his own heart racing. Devastation is painted on every crease of Tony’s face, sorrow written in his dark eyes, and Peter’s name on his lips.

_“Dad.”_

“Peter—” Tony reaches for him, extending his right arm and stepping forward.

He stumbles forward but doesn’t reach back for Tony and instead makes for the bathroom, shoving the door open until it clangs against the wall and fumbles to open the toilet lid and then he’s dry heaving. Acid hits the back of his tongue. Peter trembles. Falls to his knees, forearm catching part of his weight against the back of porcelain.

_Not again,_ he begs, _please please not again not again no please Mom._

His senses lose control or at least they must be out of control because Peter cannot hear any more of the need for an identification but he hears Tony calling out for him far away; the street below quietens for the first time since the bite; his heartbeat deafens him. He gags. Tears leak out and sit heavily on his cheeks but he has no energy to wipe them away; front door shuts with a dragging click; he coughs and coughs; a familiar baritone saying _Pep_ and _please_ and _Peter_ only to be swallowed up, whitening out by contents leaving his mouth, splashing into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah... I know. scream about it to me on my [tumblr?](https://ardenskyedarcy221b.tumblr.com)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_Someone did her makeup,_ he notes as he peers down at his mother’s relaxed face. Beneath the wrong shade of foundation, Peter sees lacerations closed with black sutures above her right eyebrow, then on her chin, and bruises that won’t ever fade away in-between. His stomach knots painfully.

Behind him Ned’s hand closes over his elbow.

Peter breaks his gaze and rotates until he can throw himself at his best friend. Ned catches him.

They stay silent, locked around each other, quivering and crying.

If Ben’s funeral is anything to go off of, Peter isn’t going to remember much of today either. All a blur, like photographs stained by bokeh. The pain won’t leave him… a memento tattooed on his soul. No, both days will stay with Peter like a collection of photos he will never wish to look at again, tucked away by lock and key, but he does not need to see them to remember the gist of the memory. Snapshot moments that will haunt him forever.

Exhaustion pulls at his shoulders.

Ned guides him to the back of the parlor where they remain until Tony finds them. His father pats Ned on the back before turning his full attention on Peter, a raised eyebrow silently communicating if he is ready to leave. He nods. Tony stands first, offering his hand first to Peter and then Ned as the friends stand side by side, listing together like overgrown sunflowers wilting under August sun, all heat and no water. Peter’s gaze wanders until they catch sight of the mahogany casket once more; then they zero in on the carpet.

From the corner of his eye, Ned offers out his pinkie. Peter takes it lest he float away.

Pepper appears next. She is the group’s unofficial timestamp that the funeral has finished and the three of them follow her out to the car.

Happy opens up the back passenger door. Pepper goes in first. Ned glances back before letting go of Peter’s pinkie, following after the businesswoman. Peter bumps into his father’s side, not wanting to be alone, selfishly wishing he could stick to Tony through this itchy suit. His fingers tangle with his father’s cuff instead. Tony’s hand comes up to press against Peter’s lower back, walking with him to close the distance to the car. Limo, really, but it isn’t anything over the top. It’s the least important thing on Peter’s mind.

A thicker hand lands on his shoulder and Peter’s eyes find Happy. Fingers flex briefly into his shoulder then release. Peter can’t do anything, not smile or offer a head nod in return.

“Go on,” instructs Tony, softly nudging him into the car.

Peter freezes, leaning back into his father’s chest and shaking his head.

Tony shushes him, hand on his back not leaving Peter until Tony steps around him and slides into the car; then it beckons him to follow.

He does, practically gluing himself to Tony’s side once the car door shuts behind him.

Five heartbeats resound in the small space, thrumming for his attention, sucking up air and every inch of space. Peter fidgets. His head rolls for a comfortable spot. Tony shifts, then, and his arm wraps around Peter’s shoulders and his head settles along the available space.

Peter is lulled to sleep by Tony’s heart, strong and alive.

It isn’t a deep sleep, however; twilight descends like an elusive beacon. Speed bumps jar him and Happy has the tendency to brake late for red lights, so Peter intuitively learns to shift with the momentum, eyes remaining shut, leaning against his father. Ned natters with Pepper and Peter takes in their conversation but their words process like an unfamiliar language.

When the car comes to an extended stop, it occurs to Peter that they must have reached Ned’s place. He can’t muster up the energy to blink open his eyes and mutter a _see you later_ to his best friend. He stays where he’s at, curled against his dad. Pepper and Tony offer subdued goodbyes and Ned’s fingers ghost the top of Peter’s knee on his way out the car.

Car picks up speed once more.

Tony pulls Peter closer.

Pepper shifts to sit next to her fiancé before fingernails scratch Peter’s scalp.

He wobbles between woolgathering and sleeping, whiting out his mind’s canvas to shove away dreams in the hopes he won’t drop off and see his mother, an ethereal figure without any discernible facial features, though he knows down to the marrow of his bones it is his mother.

She is imprinted behind his eyelids, silent and out of reach.

He doesn’t think about how small of a turnout the funeral was; doesn’t worry about his losses; focuses on Pepper’s coconut lotion lingering in the corners of the car; attempts to match Tony’s breathing. Maybe if he does not think, he will not dream. And if he does not dream, then maybe Peter will wake up, startled but not alone, frightened by his imagination.

He can’t fool himself. 

Tony slides his hand down and up Peter’s spine and murmurs, “Pete, we’re home.”

A piece of him wants to ignore Tony, pretend he is so deeply asleep that waking him up would be a crime, and see what will happen. If he were a child, he knows, the easiest manner would be carrying Peter upstairs, like Ben used to do. Ben never had the heart to wake up Peter when he was younger. Ben simply relished it. A piece of him enjoys the thought of being carried by his father, but it’s an image that refuses to fully form: a vague charcoal outline and nothing more.

His heart pangs. A tear falls and he isn’t sure if that one had been for his uncle or his mother. His family is gone. Peter is a sailboat, untethered and drifting out, bracing for an incoming storm against a roiling ocean. Water is on deck. He is sinking. No time for transitions only the loss of familiarity. He sucks in air through his mouth because his nose is clogged and his chest expands but is never satisfied.

He won’t survive this; he can’t possibly survive this life. _He will drown._

Tony’s hand curls at the base of Peter’s neck and brings him back, softly reiterating that they are home and Peter stretches, breaking from his thoughts. Blinks, shattering fog and meeting his father’s brown gaze. A beacon. Reminder to breathe, to float, to _fight._ Peter can’t do this on his own. Tony offers a hand.

Peter gets out of the car.

Inside the elevator, Tony and Pepper surround him, their body heat his silky cocoon keeping him upright. No, not a cocoon. A web. He’s trapped. Bitten by a spider on a field trip and his life has been nothing short of a shit show since that moment. He is both hunter and prey, tricking himself into spun web by his own hand, designed to hold the weight of the world and he dangles. Precarious. Suspended in time. Life drains as blood rushes to his head. He sways.

“Okay?” presses Tony, his arm closing in around Peter’s shoulders, twisting them around until he is tucked and stable.

He shakes his head.

Pepper’s fingers reach for his hand, loosely encircling. “Do you need to lie down?”

Acid rises up his throat at the thought of being alone, bubbling at the back of his mouth, hurtling with the speed of fear. “No—”

Tony soothes, “Hey, hey—”

“I don’t wanna be alone,” he says, blunt and honest.

“Alright,” Pepper replies, calm like the rising sun and firm like an unmovable oak tree. “We’ll change and hang out on the couch for the rest of the day.”

Peter sags into Tony’s side, twisting his hand until it tangles with Pepper’s.

He didn’t make his bed this morning, covers twisted and jumbled together like half-formed thoughts or half-strummed guitar cords, and it makes for a nice new home for his suit once Peter takes it off, standing before it in nothing but his boxers and a too large sweater. His knees knock as shivers wrack his form. Crisp black against soft blue sheets and comforter, lumpy and disfigured. He wants to burn the suit; worn twice in as many months but he hates it, _loathes it,_ and Peter doesn’t think of the money spent on him for it. No, he sees it and he hates it because it means Ben and Mom and funerals. Plural. He thinks about attacking the suit laid out on his bed, scrambling for purchase and flinging it across the room, trousers snapping with momentum and the shirt heaving for the floor. There is no noise, only this: he is the sound of silence, immortalized in this moment. He will not remember everyone that came to pay their respects; he will remember this moment, staringat a suit he never wishes to wear again, loathing igniting his bloodstream like kerosene.

Red and blue flashes to mind.

Peter shakes his head, scoffing under his breath because he wants to trade suits, would rather have Spider-Man’s responsibilities than Peter Parker’s suffocating ones.

He reaches for sweatpants and shimmies into the cotton. Trades dress socks for woolen ones. Spins around once, twice. Stares one last time at his bed before shuffling out of his room, heading for the couch and the silent television.

Except the moment his toe crosses the threshold of his room into the hallway, FRIDAY turns on the television, low volume begging him come closer. Its softer noise is bubbled, like not having superhearing all of a sudden, and he craves it. Normalcy never tasted sweet on his tongue.

Peter tugs off the afghan on the back of the couch, curling into a ball, and props his head against the arm rest. 

Tony finds him first.

“Here,” he says once he stands in Peter’s view of the screen, motioning with his arm as Peter blinks up at him, not comprehending. So Tony bends at the waist, tipping Peter upright, then he sits down in the spot Peter had curled up and re-situates Peter against his chest. “Better.”

He agrees.

Pepper wonders over, bringing ginger ale and sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruits, and all the smells make Peter’s stomach revolt. He skipped breakfast and he’s weak for it. Air tastes like burnt ashes so why would food be any different? For now, they leave him alone after Peter begs off, leaving the food on the coffee table. He speaks enough adult language to know it’s to entice his hunger, to encourage him eating later.

They spend the rest of their New Year’s Eve right there on the couch, idling flipping channels, huddled together.

Peter dozes off and on.

Tony and Pepper talk in-between silences.

By dinner, Pepper is adamant Peter eats, so she shoves a bowl of chicken Alfredo at him and not surprisingly, he polishes it off. Doesn’t mean his stomach doesn’t cramp afterwards.

Tony instructs FRIDAY to play a movie at random. When it turns out to be a comedy, Peter can’t help wondering if it was not quite as random as it should have been. He doesn’t call him out on it, though.

Three hours to midnight, with their first movie over, Tony asks if Peter wants to stay up to see the ball drop. Hubbub does not touch them here inside their penthouse and he does not have the heart to wonder why he isn’t experiencing a sensory overload. Instead, Peter nods.

“Yeah, I’ll make it.” he answers, tone implying he will never sleep again.

Halfway through the next movie Pepper starts massaging the arch of his foot. It conks out Peter.

He misses the glitz and the glam of the ball dropping, the end of a shitty year, and the start of something new. 2017’s introduction is a quiet celebration. He misses Pepper reaching for Tony’s hand and their mouthed _I love yous._ He misses Pepper wrapping him up with a second blanket.

Softened darkness clouding the living room, Peter wakes up, still propped against his father. Tony sleeps sitting up, head tipped back and lower jaw opened on an easy inhale, unaware of the imprinted dreams on Peter’s eyelids that startled him awake. It must be after three, he guesstimates, because he hasn’t been sleeping in long increments last couple days. If he’s lucky, it’s four hours. He isn’t very lucky.

His head rises and falls with Tony’s breathing. His eyes flick up to make sure his father remains undisturbed. He fluctuates with indecisiveness. He doesn’t want to move; realizes that being in bed would be better; bees prod the lining of his stomach at the thought of waking Tony up to go to bed; safety is Tony’s whispered breaths.

Peter shifts the blankets off him and onto Tony. He rises. Without a backwards glance, Peter trudges down the hallway and into his room, the lock latching in the echoing silence.

Rest of the night passes as Peter allows thoughts to seep in, taking on the form of black clothes and wind in his face.

By seven he’s made the first pot of coffee. He knows he shouldn’t drink it. Figures one cup won’t hurt him, maybe give him extra jitters. What’s some more anxiety atop the monstrosity he carries? Nothing special.

School starts back up on Thursday. It makes his head spin trying to get his act together enough to return, though he knows it’ll smooth out once the semester gets under way. He struggled after Thanksgiving because of exams…but he can get through anything. Silently, Peter tells himself he has four more days to wallow.

(He knows it doesn’t work that way; he _knows it._ Doesn’t mean he can’t hope. All he wants is this massive hole in his chest to heal; doesn’t want to walk around for the rest of his life missing fragments of himself.)

He pillows his head against his arms, bending over the countertop to rest.

That’s how Pepper finds him.

She greets him silently, running her hand first through his mussed curls and then halfway down his back. He listens as she pours herself a cup of coffee, wanders toward the refrigerator for half and half, adding a splash to her mug before returning it, and once she is finished she shuffles back toward him, propping her side against the counter and sips.

Peter peeks up at her.

She does not smile, not like he has grown used to seeing in the mornings, and his stomach spasms. Her gaze is light, though, peering at him as if taking stock, but she refrains from speaking. Her focus is outside their penthouse, watching the dawdling night sky strain into morning with the first hints of pinkish-orange. Peter watches her.

“Will I ever heal?” he wonders out loud, as equally quiet as the atmosphere, his words coming out muffled against his elbow.

Pepper sets down her black mug. “I know it feels like you are never going to get passed this feeling in your chest; like you’re walking around lost and incomplete; but Peter? I promise you that you will heal.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because I lost my dad right before I went off to college,” she replies, simple and matter of fact. “There is no timeline for you to follow, sweetheart; you’ll always grieve for them, but you will heal.”

His breath shudders.

She wipes his tears away.

A noise from the hallway pulls his attention and he announces, “Tony’s coming.”

Pepper’s eyebrows furrow.

Tony enters the kitchen, heading toward them and settling into the space between them. First he presses a kiss to Pepper’s temple then reaches for Peter’s arm, though his fingers ghost along Peter’s cheek instead.

Peter imagines time freezes around them, snapshotting them into immortality and leaving Peter with this inkling of warmth in his chest, twining around his heart until it beats normally; it isn’t much but it is a moment to breathe; _to be._ Perhaps as time unfreezes and moseys on this moment will live in Peter: just a moment between him and Tony and Pepper.

“Breakfast?” Tony’s voice nudges time forward.

“Sure,” answers Pepper.

He remains planted at the countertop, definitely in the way, though unwilling to move. The adults maneuver around him like it isn’t a big deal. And maybe it isn’t so Peter keeps his thoughts at bay. He stares at nothing in particular, tuning out his father and Pepper as his brain soaks up their movements and filters it away. His mind palace is on fire with anarchy’s smoldering victory.

“Pete.”

“Yeah.”

“Peter.”

He blinks back into focus, shaking his head and saying, “Yeah.” then he pushes off his makeshift resting place and heads toward the kitchen table. “Sorry.” he utters once he is seated.

Tony waves him off as he scoops scrambled eggs on Peter’s then Pepper’s plates. “How is it that your hearing is off the charts majority of the time and then you just zonk out on me at other times?”

“What?” he isn’t expecting the question so he is rather unintelligent with his response. “Ummm.”

Tony and Pepper share a quick look, there and gone, before Tony continues, “I’ve noticed some things you’ve said.”

His heart thrums a little harder in his chest. It isn’t like he’s necessarily been hiding it now that he is recalling rather obvious moments. “I, uh, guess I forgot to mention I’ve got powers.”

“Aside from the spidery stickiness, yeah.”

He nods, “Yeah, aside from the spidery stickiness.” he pauses and gauges their expressions and continues on when both adults look expectant. “Far as I can tell it’s advanced strength, hearing, well all senses, yeah, and that tips over a tad into like… better balance and whatnot; I think my metabolism increased, too, but I’m not sure if it’s a growth spurt, so….” he trails off, surprised at the short ordered rambling.

“Okay,” shrugs Tony, nodding as if that is the end of it.

Pepper mirrors him, an impressed expression flitting across her blue eyes.

“Okay?” Peter parrots, dropping his fork and leaning against the table to stare at his father in confusion. “That’s it? _Okay?_ I told you I have weird powers and—”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony cuts him off. “No point fussing over it.”

“So… what, that’s the end of the conversation?” his tone drips in trepidation.

“For now.”

Part of him does not want to stop the conversation because he never imagined it going so smoothly; his anxiety tells him to wait for the other shoe to drop. Then again, it’s weird to talk about his new superhuman traits. Peter Parker is damn near a social pariah; why add fuel to the fire? He lets it go.

If more eggs find their way to his plate than usual, Peter keeps quiet.

Once all three have finished nobody moves to get the day started. It isn’t often that they are not all busy, activities demanding their attention, so whenever they have free time they enjoy it together. Peter’s on the verge of zoning out when Pepper’s voice demands attention.

“—no way you can get in touch with anyone until Thursday?”

“Not traditionally.”

“Please keep it traditional.”

Peter speaks before Tony has a chance to dramatically defend himself, “What’s Thursday? I know I go back to school—”

“You’re not going back on Thursday, Pete.” says Tony.

“What—what do you mean I’m not going back? I—”

Tony doesn’t allow him to finish before interjecting, “You need time off.”

“I didn’t take time off with Ben.” he points out.

“My point exactly; I know why you didn’t want to take time off after Ben; but Peter I can’t let you continue avoiding your grief and go back to school only to act as if nothing happened.”

“I know—”

“You lost _two_ important people in your life, bud. _Weeks_ apart. You need time to heal at home.”

A growl sits at the base of his throat, “I have one last exam to take.”

“I didn’t forget about it,” assures Tony, tone level in comparison to the mounting frustration rising inside of Peter. “I’ll talk to your principal on Thursday. He may say you can make it up once you return or—”

“I don’t want special treatment!”

“Peter.”

His eyes burn and Peter rubs furiously at his face before hiding behind his hands. A chair creaks and Peter pushes out of his chair before Tony or Pepper can attempt to console him. He stomps off toward his bedroom, all the while thinking that the conversation isn’t over and Peter will return to Midtown High like everyone else.

Winter break needs to be _over._

So Peter ignores Tony and Pepper as much as he possible. Whenever Tony tries to reason with Peter, the teenager learns to walk away. He wants to go back; Tony doesn’t. Pepper, try as she might to appear Switzerland, Peter knows she sides with her fiancé and thus Peter can’t talk to her either.

He finds zero sympathy from his best friend once Ned points out: _Pete, don’t stress yourself out unnecessarily. Take time off. School should be the last thing on your mind._

Peter does not want time off! Time off means time to think and Peter can’t get his brain to _shut up_ now. Time means thinking about Ben and how Peter ignored his uncle’s shooter, how the police do not have a solid lead to go on, or at least that is all the information Peter has been made privy. Time means thinking about his mother and how Peter hoped they were on a new bend, not whole but _healing_ and treading toward a new normal, and then reading his mother’s autopsy report stings.

He borrows Tony’s StarkPad and goes over his mother’s death report, reads _female_ and _Mary Fitzpatrick-Parker_ and _39_ and _BAC 0.04%_ and he glosses over remaining information about broken vertebrae and other contents in her system. She had been buzzed, but not intoxicated. Her organs were a mess but if that car never hit her, Mary Fitzpatrick would have lived. 

No, Peter does not want time. He wants to forget. Their losses are punishment enough.

Sunday blurs into Monday. Monday bleeds into Tuesday to the tune of Tony toeing the line between too determined and too indifferent. Come Wednesday, Peter is hellbent on getting Tony to change his mind. Peter sleeps in and isn’t up and about at the same time as his guardians and thus his opportunity to champion for himself is lost. Pepper isn’t around for lunch because of an emergency meeting in D.C. and FRIDAY informs him Tony ran into S.I. to assist on a project in R&D. 

Peter drapes himself across the couch in the living room, fiddling with his phone and counting indentations on the ceiling, until someone comes home. 

A familiar heartbeat sings in his eardrums and once Pepper steps foot inside the penthouse, Peter declares,

“I’m going to school tomorrow.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” sighs Pepper, depositing her belongings on the floor before toeing off her high heels. “Come help me with dinner.”

He echoes, “I’m going to school tomorrow.”

“And I told you I am not arguing with you; so please come help me with dinner.” her voice trails across the entryway into the kitchen.

He bangs the back of his head against the cushions several times before slowing sliding off the couch and shuffling into the kitchen. Pepper points him to the cutting board with cauliflower and Peter chops the vegetable without further prompting. Pepper pulls back her strawberry blonde locks and then gets to work prepping their main dish. Chicken, by the smell of it.

Tony does not wander in until they sit down.

Peter’s stomach knots. He _has_ to go back to Midtown tomorrow.

Except Tony is just as adamant about Peter staying home once Peter brings up the topic a few minutes after everyone is settled.

“You’re not going and that’s final.”

Peter bristles at the tone, dropping his fork on his plate with a loud clatter. “So, what, you plan on keeping me home for the rest of the semester? I can’t miss school! What are your plans: to homeschool me?”

“No, stop being ridiculous.” scoffs Tony, irritation lining his tone and his expression. “We’ll revisit the issue of school once you’ve had ti—”

“I don’t need it!” he screeches, slamming his napkin covered fist on the table and pushing off it to stand a second later. “Stop fucking telling me what I need!”

“Alright. You need to calm the fuck down—”

“ _No!_ How am I supposed to calm down—” he spits out, “when I’m supposed to go to school tomorrow and you won’t—”

“Sit down.”

He fights back a scream, though isn’t too successful.

“Peter, sit down! I need for you to listen to me for two goddamn seconds—”

Heart in his throat he hisses out, “Piss off.” 

Then he flees.

Right before he can disappear down the hallway he hears Tony toss over his shoulder, “You’re still staying home tomorrow!” as his parting shot.

Peter slams into his bedroom door, shouldering it open and slamming it shut. Frightened he may receive a verbal lashing for his behavior, Peter turns the lock on his handle. He rests there, breathing heavily out his mouth, holding onto his anger with an iron fist flooding his nervous system. His eyes sting and he may throw up what little food he had eaten.

_Freedom._

His eyes close, head pressing into the wood behind him. He thinks of swinging and air in his face and darkness of night covering him and his surroundings.

Quick as if lightning struck him with inspiration, Peter crosses the distance toward his closet and begins rummaging, shoving aside bright colors and t-shirts. He yanks down a black hoodie and tugs it inside out, hiding the logo, then tugs it over his head. Next he beelines for his chest of drawers in search of black sweats and socks.

Underneath his bed are old supplies he brought over from his mother’s apartment. Tony may have confiscated his Spider-Man suit and webshooters though that isn’t going to stop him. Peter is nothing if not paranoid and prepared: he’s got a backup pair with an older model of fluid, so long as it hasn’t dried out by now.

He shakes the canister and sighs in relief. 

Peter shoves a black mask into the hoodie pocket then smoothes out the garment once it is situated. Stomps his feet into black running shoes. Reaches for his cell phone and fiddles around for several beats to dislocate his tracker. A part of him is mildly surprised he could turn it off and tweak it like he has done but it passes quickly because he knows Tony will up the ante whenever he gets his hands back on his phone. 

Oh well.

It would be nice to take a laptop or a tablet for what Peter has planned, but he isn’t sure how much time he is working with at the moment until the other shoe drops. As he strains his hearing outward just enough to ping Tony’s and Pepper’s locations, and identifying them to be in the kitchen still, Peter takes a gamble on scrambling a StarkPad for his little excursion. His phone is made to do the same things, but—

A chair scratching across the tile startles Peter. He drops the tablet. Doesn’t bother picking it back up. It’s now or never.

He opens up the window, briefly looks for civilians below because while it may be dark, it’s some time after 8:30 and people are milling like normal. He contemplates a swatch of darkness as cover then changes his mind. He’ll climb up and depart from the top of the building.

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I celebrated my first irondad anniversary yesterday and uploaded my first [irondad bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540546) story as a hoorah, if anyone is interested! <3


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN A MONTH YOU GUYS!!!!!! honestly, if I wasn't already fifteen chapters into this damned story I'd have gifted it to ciaconnaa and hailing-stars by now for how often they hear me complain while writing. oof.

“Perfect.”

He settles into the corner of his chosen rooftop, knees propped up, as Peter scrolls through his cell phone. Not wanting to test fate, he is several buildings away from Ben’s precinct and he has successfully tapped into information he needs. Didn’t take as long as he thought it would either, though Peter refuses to dwell on it. His hands are steady. His mind is focused.

First case he delves into is for Benjamin F. Parker. Thankfully, the middle initial and the fact Ben worked for the precinct helped Peter find the case file quicker. (Sue him forgetting how big Queens can be and that Benjamin Parker could be considered a common name.) Once the electronic file is open, Ben’s picture pops up. It’s the standard issue one from the police department. It’s the picture they had on display at his funeral.

Peter low-key hates the picture.

“Let’s see,” he mutters under his breath as he minimizes the photo, eyes scanning the information he has to glance through.

Ben's case is active, he reads, and it sends a trickling of warmth toward his chest. Peter goes to click on a link full of potential suspects and finds it is blocked. He blinks and fiddles around until he has access, pushing down the urge to celebrate even with a shoulder jiggle, and finds three potential names, all linked to a case Ben had been working around the time of his death.

“Well, shit.”

He can’t open it.

All of a sudden, the nerves compile and a tremor vibrates his right hand. His phone drops, hitting his thighs, and settles into his lap. It stays there as he sucks in breath after breath after breath.

“Get it together, Peter,” he gripes, hands slipping beneath his hood and gripping strands of hair.

One last hefty sigh.

Phone back in hand, Peter flips his phone right side up and taps on the first suspect’s name. It appears, as he reads along, that Ben’s last big case dealt with a gang, which started back on October 1st. His brows furrow and Peter racks his memory for anything out of the ordinary: nothing particular comes to mind. Huh. Then again, that would have been around the same time that his mother— he shakes away the thought. He had a lot going on at the time and it wouldn’t have been unusual for his uncle to withhold information about his day at work. Ben glossed over facts the majority of the time and Peter expected it. It wasn’t too out of the norm for his uncle to come home from work either looking as if he hadn’t slept in a month or wearing a different outfit than what he went to work in. If Peter never asked, Ben never offered. 

Anyways, the initial incident that kickstarted everything, according to records, is Ben and Henry arresting two perpetrators for possession of crack and unregistered handguns. They find out later about the gang, but that’s always a risk working in Narcotics and not unexpected. Peter can also read between the lines that the perps must have been linked to another crime: Ben wasn’t a beat cop in Narcotics, so picking up someone for possession generally implied detectives were pretending to flash their cards early. Nothing is stated explicitly about why Ben and his partner were patrolling in a particular area and came about arresting two people. It happens, though; where cases split branches and have multilayers and Ben would have worked two separate cases, no matter if the original was the catalyst for the second. In terms of suspect names, Peter finds the original perps in addition a potential higher-up gang member.

He scrolls through three rap sheets. It is mostly straightforward. None have records of homicide, though one has a history of domestic disputes. Nothing that would tip police off who Ben’s shooter had been. Shell casings found on scene do not match up to anything in their system, no fingerprints, not even any partials. He attempts to ignore his hunch, a combination of years of experience taught by Ben and his own extra sense, shoving it down down down. Witnesses offer little more than Peter had submitted; all are in agreement on car color, but there’s five different car models. Even by the end of the rap sheets, Peter is hard pressed staying in denial.

There isn’t a solid lead.

“Fuck logic, man,” he hisses under his breath, exiting out of Ben’s file. His hands tremble, his chest tightens. “S’just… useless.”

All Peter wants… is something. He can’t articulate. All he knows is that whatever he wants is something to go on, to find a weak chain so he can unravel it… and… and— what? His eyes close, tipping backwards against the brick wall. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, despite his body thrumming with the need to do _something._ Frustration tangles for dominance.

Unwilling to give into the red haze swirling like a storm cloud in his head, Peter clicks out of his uncle’s file and switches out for his mother’s.

Though if he thought he would have any better luck, he is sorely mistaken.

Where Ben’s file had multiple sources and files to pick through, Mary C. Fitzpatrick-Parker’s is paltry in comparison. An old driver’s license photo stares back at him. Grainy in comparison to Ben’s police issued photograph, but it’s his mother all the same. Beyond that, her autopsy is included and he skips over it, not wishing to reread what had been concluded. Only he doesn’t skim quickly enough because a new headshot comes into view down at the bottom and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. It burns into his retinas: his mother’s cadaver. Death stains her gray. Bruises and lacerations line her face that he only glimpsed at during her funeral, clear and on display and without any makeup. Hair limp and combed out. A half-formed thought trickles through his head that compares her to an abuse victim.

His stomach revolts and Peter barely has enough time to twist left before dinner makes a reappearance.

It is so much worse, he decides, having a picture of her autopsy as the final sight of her in the back of his mind than the image of her inside a casket.

Unfortunately for him, the picture still fills up his screen once he unlocks his phone after he’s gotten his breath back. He flexes his jaw and quickly closes out of the autopsy. Peter finds his way back to beginning and his eyes rove over the information, without taking in anything. 

That is until he reads his mother’s case is not active.

Peter cannot articulate why that bothers him so much. Half-heartedly he reads through all the information the police have gathered and he comes to the same conclusion: it was accidental. Nothing more than a wrong place, wrong time. Person driving stopped and offered assistance and was one of several people who called 911. Technically, his mother shouldn’t have been where she had been. Granted, nobody has control over a car breaking down. He just—

Shivers jar his body.

He stares at the screen for an indeterminate amount of time.

Eventually he comes back to himself. The air holds a putrid sting to it that causes his stomach to roil, though he knows it is foul because of his vomit and not because he can smell that picture that’s burned into his head. He swipes out of the reports and goes back into the system to make sure that he hasn’t left any noticeable trails behind.

Once he has finished with that, Peter stands. His knees pop. He fidgets with his hood as he meanders toward a particular spot on the roof, glancing over the edge to make sure there are not any witnesses. He deems the coast is clear, shooting a web, and jumping for the alleyway below him. Safe and secure on concrete, Peter untangles his web with some help from dissolvent he managed to snag with his shooters, wrapping it around his clenched fist until all evidence is gone. He thinks about holding on to it, then decides against it and dumps the balled up web in the dumpster.

And walks right out of the alley to merge with the thinning foot-traffic.

He can’t risk swinging through Queens. He knows that FRIDAY snitched on him as soon as his left leg went out the window. He has sneaking out experience on his side but Peter isn’t stupid: he knows it is only a matter of time before Tony finds him. His webshooters are precaution and nothing more. He assumes Tony will first look for Spider-Man and he is counting on the distinction.

So Peter heads further away from Ben’s former precinct and allows himself to get lost inside of Forest Hills.

It isn’t until he begins passing by familiar landmarks that Peter realizes how much he misses Queens. Or maybe, he wonders, maybe what Peter really misses isn’t so much Queens but the life he used to have. Misses what Queens used to stand for and wishes he could go back. It isn’t that he wishes away Tony or Pepper… but what Peter wouldn’t give to see Ben one last time; or his mother; for things to go back to normal.

His shoulders slump.

Next time he looks up Peter sees a familiar apartment building. Ben and May’s complex, to be more precise. He searches for the windows he know belongs to them and spots a faint flickering, as if someone is watching a show or a movie with the rest of the lights off. Too much time hasn’t passed since the last time he saw May, though enough has passed that Peter’s stomach squeezes anxiously.

Because May had showed up to the funeral, halfway through, put together on the outside but her expression was guarded, exasperated by the dark bags under her eyes. Peter hadn’t noticed her at first; it had been Ned that pointed her out. May had stopped to speak with Tony and Pepper first, who were both sporting straight spines and tense shoulders, and though Peter easily could have eavesdropped on their conversation, he refrained. If he had unleashed control on one sense, the others would have flared up, and there was no way Peter would willingly subject himself a sensory overload at his mother’s funeral. So they waited. Peter didn’t seek anyone out, hiding in the back of the parlor like he had at Ben’s, and waited for people to seek him out instead. And they usually did. May was not an exception. She offered Ned a half smile and patted Peter’s forearm. She had opened her mouth as if to some say something and Peter had watched as her eyes shuttered and she had obviously changed her mind.

“Love you, bug,” she had said.

Peter clung to her hand so tight all he remembers after that point is how white his own hand had turned.

Then May had left. Because everything during the funeral hits him in spurts, Peter recalls freaking out about not being able to find Tony after seeing his aunt. Ned had calmed him by pointing out Tony and the two friends had shadowed his father for some time afterwards. He doesn’t remember much else, aside from profound and turbulent emotions. 

A loud muffler brings Peter back to the present.

It’s been radio silence between him and May since the funeral, but Peter can’t help feeling as if something had been bothering his aunt and she didn’t know how to broach the topic. Other shoe always drops. Ben, Mom; needless to say, he shouldn’t be surprised if something happens with May.

Too much of a coward to drop in unannounced this late into the evening, Peter moseys into the alleyway on the right, going all the way to the back corner to make sure nobody is watching him. After a few breaths, he crawls up the wall and settles in on the rooftop. Paranoia has him searching for fellow rooftop dwellers, though past experience reminds him this area of town isn’t known for inhabitants up this high. All the same Peter settles down on the floor so he can’t be seen, tucked into a corner, eyes staring unseeing at an HVAC system.

For all Peter knows he could have stayed up there until the break of dawn. Perhaps he could have, if Tony hadn’t found him.

“What the absolute fuck do you think you are doing?”

Tony’s voice startles him so badly Peter knocks into the brick wall in his haste to spin around and spot his father. He must have been so zoned out he didn’t even hear the suit’s approach. Iron Man suit opens up and Tony steps out, anger lining every crevice of his face.

Peter squawks, scrambling for purchase to stand, fumbling for something to say. A part of him had imagined this interaction happening very differently: more along the lines of a chase around town and Peter, well, knowing when to expect Tony. Joke is on Peter, however; because the moment he left home, he knew Tony would follow. He never had the control, not really. Now he’s caught speechless and unprepared and—

“Oh no, I don’t want your excuses.” Tony crosses his arms once he stops a few paces in front of Peter. Peter recognizes a hint of a guarded off expression he hasn’t seen since the last time Ben leveled it at him when he changes his mind. Concern, he thinks it may be; it isn’t an obvious facial twitch of the emotion, though. He’s learned every adult has their own version of it, only it is the first time he has seen it so clearly on his father’s face. It makes Peter pause, his jaw clicking shut. “By all means, save your breath. Best to keep quiet instead of lying to my face, hmm?”

“Tony—”

“ _No._ You listen to me: I find your traces in police intelligence, rather obvious as if pointed by a neon sign, and just to be certain I didn’t miss anything, I had FRIDAY go in and properly hide your tracks.”

“I’m not a shit hacker,” he bites out, pinpricks running down his spine in the same fashion he imagines a dog’s hackles would rise. He doesn’t bother denying truth of the matter, bites back the urge to call his father dramatic and finishes, “I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Well, it was a shit job tonight.”

His nerves are shot.

Tony paces closer to him, clipped and intimidating. Peter backs up, back hitting the wall and heart strumming irregularly in his chest.

And then, something in Tony snaps to attention, eyes widening, and suddenly Tony is backing away from Peter quicker than he came at him.

“Wait—”

His father mumbles under his breath, head tipped downward and hiding expressive eyes from Peter, but Peter has a hunch what is going through Tony’s head. _His father, no, not— gotta stop him._ Tony keeps backing away and Peter follows, tentative about spooking him.

Next bit Peter anticipates before it happens: Tony continues backtracking until rooftop runs out of space, though the older man’s moving along at a nice gait and doesn’t even notice backs of knees hitting the edge of the roof and Tony falls.

Peter dives right after him, shooting off one web to secure to the rooftop just in case and another over the edge, blindly aiming for his father. The moment Peter crests the edge, Tony is perhaps five or six feet below him but secured by his webbing. He breathes out heavily. Then he starts yanking him back up by the webs, inch by inch by inch. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, heart at the back of his throat. “Oh my god, holy shit, I’ve got you. Hang on.”

Below him, his father curses, “Holy fuck. Pete,” he reaches for him.

The webbing twitches.

Panic dances like flames in Tony’s eyes.

Peter leans over the lip of the building, left hand outstretched and heaves. The webbing won’t snap, but Peter does not feel comfortable with how little has been used to secure Tony. He needs to be on solid ground _stat._ Peter yanks twice more, gritting his teeth, and Tony is within touching distance now. His fingers graze Tony’s sweater and pulls him up the rest of the way.

Tony staggers, leaning into him.

As Peter scootches them backwards without releasing his father, they knock into Tony’s sentry suit. Instead of spazzing out, Peter leans up against it and closes his eyes.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Peter breathes out, “You attempted swan diving off the building and I saved you.”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t intentional,” his father says between bouts of heavy pants. “Can’t be swan diving if it was not intentional.”

Peter hums, fingers yanking apart the webs because he used the last of the dissolvent earlier. And this is easier.

“Pete.”

“I—I don’t wanna fight.”

“Excellent, because I’m not looking to fight.”

When his eyes open, he watches as Tony’s back shifts and then they are properly facing each other. Tony’s jaw tics. His expression is no longer frightened, though something indescribable hovers in the background of his eyes.

Peter’s brows furrow at the admission for a split second. He supposes taking a several feet nosedive off the side of the building before a suit of armor can form around him and his son saving him instead would take the wind out of his sails, too, Peter speculates.

He rises. Offers Tony his hand in assistance. Slowly, Tony takes it and stands up.

He changes the subject.

“Are you taking me home now?”

Peter pushes away creeping humiliation pooling in his belly if Tony says _yes._ He’d rather not be carried back home in a suit if it’s all the same to his father. He hopes he’s radiating pitiful vibes right now because if—

“Nope,” he pops the consonant, cutting off Peter’s internal fretting. “We’re waiting on Pepper to come and pick us up and then we’re going home.”

Peter attempts raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry. 

Tony takes the hint and continues, “I, uh, may have aroused suspicion flying around midtown and Queens looking for you. So I’m not going to drag your ass home by the suit, no matter how much satisfaction it would bring me. And she’s been out looking for you, too.”

Peter tips his face at the ground to hide his grimace.

Tony clears his throat.

Automatically he glances away from the ground and wants to ask why Tony isn’t yelling at him. He bites back the words, pursing his lips, and wondering what he should ask instead. He feels childish, he realizes. A piece of him feels as if he got caught playing dress up in dad’s clothes and it wars against his need to show Tony how independent he already is; because he has already made the assumption that Tony will not budge and—

“Hey,” Tony whispers, though his voice carries. 

He tilts his head.

A fierce air settles over Tony, not automatically speaking like Peter expected he would. Instead, Peter is treated to several excruciating long breaths of hard brown orbs scrutinizing him. He fights down the urge to squirm or fidget, his first instinct is to tug his sleeves over his fists. Try as he might, he can’t meet and keep Tony’s gaze.

A gust of air and then, “Thank you.”

Peter startles. “No, why—”

“Pete—”

“No thanks are needed.” Peter talks over Tony. “It’s kinda my thing, what I do.” his hands wave in the direction of the rooftop’s edge in mild explanation and his ears enflame as he listens to his voice pitch higher. “Really, I—”

Tony opens his mouth.

Peter practically screeches, “Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

Tony rolls his eyes. After another beat or two, he answers honestly, “I’d rather not air our dirty laundry out in public. And because this conversation is long overdue and that’s on me. Also—” he waves his own hands the same way Peter had in reference to the fall, “I’m not yelling because I’m not that kind of asshole who puts shit off and then takes it out on his kid. S’why I— freaked out, honestly.” he sniffs.

Peter’s mouth opens and closes. No words come out.

“I won’t steamroll our conversation either, but I’d rather have it back at the house.” Tony breaks the silence as if there wasn’t an interlude and his eyes flit away from Peter’s. “Here’s the deal: you pick when we’re gonna have this conversation: as soon as we get back to the penthouse or in the morning.”

Peter blinks in surprise. “Er,” he tosses around a fast pros and cons list in his head and settles on, “morning, I guess.”

As soon as he says it, Peter regrets the decision.

Tony goes to speak when Peter starts shaking his head. “No?”

“No,” he agrees, waffling still then pushes forward, “Actually. Would you mind if we did it tonight? I don’t think I can make it through the night with high anxiety.”

Tony’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead and eventually he nods at Peter’s decision. “Sure. That’s fine.” his phone buzzes within his pocket. After pulling it out and checking his message, he announces, “Pep’s here.”

Peter shuffles toward the edge of the building.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“What?” he calls over his shoulder, “Um, down?”

“Nope. Try again. C’mon.”

“What?”

“C’mon as in: let me take you down.”

Peter backs up, hands flying toward his chest as if protecting his webshooters, shaking his head. “No, er, I think I can—”

“Nice try. D’you really think I’d let you keep the spares?”

“I don’t need help getting—”

“And I trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“That’s not—”

Tony cuts off his protests. “Hand ‘em over, Pete.”

His earlier indignation flares back up again. He works his jaw for a couple beats, attempting to control his temper. Tony’s blasé attitude is _infuriating._

A deep breath in. “You’re not going to let me use them to get down?” at Tony’s head shake and fingers wiggling for him to pass over his webshooters, he presses, “Why not?”

“Uh, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’ve been grounded this entire time and deliberately disobeyed me tonight by going out with a backup set? Does any of this ring a bell for you?”

“Yeah, but—” he tries halfheartedly in hopes that Tony made the distinction between Peter and his alter ego.

He doesn’t. “Oh, you wanna keep testing your luck? Will you honestly try not to swing away right now?” his hands hover for a moment, flailing like Peter’s has the tendency to do, before curling into loose fists at his sides. “Can I trust you right now?”

“Why would I try that when you’re here?”

Tony shakes his head, “Oh, you only run away when I’m not around. I see.”

“ _No._ That’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Maybe not, but it’s how it has happened.”

Peter bites back a scream of frustration.

Tony shrugs open his arms.

“I can get down by myself without your help. It’s embarrassing,” he admits through clenched teeth.

“Guess you should have thought it through.” he makes another gimme motion with his fingers, “Hand ‘em over.” 

Peter looks up. Not finding any room for negotiation on Tony’s face, Peter exhales his displeasure and begins unfastening the old prototypes off his wrists, slapping them into his father’s hands with more gusto than necessary.

Then Tony is back in the suit and Peter is squeezing his eyes shut as Iron Man himself wraps Peter up in a secure grasp and flies them off the rooftop, safely onto the ground below. Peter wiggles out as soon as possible, but Tony snags the back of his hoodie to keep him from walking too far away.

They don’t say anything as Tony finishes climbing out of the armor or even when it takes off into the air, flying back home. Tony nudges Peter forward. Once his eyes are back on ground and not on the sky, Peter leads them out of the alleyway and onto the deserted sidewalk. Peter finds Pepper’s car easily enough, but that doesn’t mean Tony lets up on his hold.

Peter opens the back door and climbs inside. Tony shuts the door for him then settles upfront. 

He expects a tongue lashing all the way home; only it never comes. Instead, Pepper and Tony must have had a silent conversation because both leave him to stew in his thoughts. He kind of hates the tactic, to be honest. He supposes when Tony said he wanted to wait until they were home, he meant is literally. Peter knows he screwed up; having an option on when punishment will arrive doesn’t make him feel better. When they are on the Queensborough bridge, Peter has half a mind to initiate their argument, especially since he’s spent the majority of the trip home analyzing his father’s change after he saved him. It’s a facade, he has realized, but Peter can’t make heads or tails of it.

Tonight is going to drag.

Pepper parks the car. Peter assumes best course of action is he flees inside first; his hand curls on the door handle when,

Pepper makes a negative noise at the back of her throat and demands, “Phone.” To make matters worse, Peter can’t exit the car.

He takes his device out of his hoodie pouch, stares down forlornly at it, then passes it to Pepper.

“Thank you,” she chirps.

He refrains from commenting by tugging on the handle several more times until it unlatches and he’s free.

Or as free as he can get until Tony’s tugging Peter back by his hoodie and stopping him from running into their penthouse first.

He doesn’t bother hiding his groan.

They ride up together. Tony and Pepper occupy one side and Peter crowds into opposite corner, arms crossed and blatantly pouting. He is summarily ignored all the way up.

“Couch.”

Peter doesn’t bother protesting and telling his dad he wasn’t going to attempt making a break for his bedroom. Dutifully, he marches into the living room and plops down on the couch and waits.

Thankfully it isn’t a long wait.

“You can’t just run off when things don’t go your way, Peter.” begins Tony, not even in front of him yet but by the end of his opening pitch he is standing in front of the couch, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, staring him down. “That’s not how this works.”

“I told you—”

“Aah,” he swipes his hand through the air. “Zip it. I’m not finished talking. We’re discussing school first since that is what is predominately on your mind and we’ll follow it up with that dumbass stunt you pulled earlier tonight.”

Peter crosses his arms and shrugs. Then, “You promised not to steamroll.”

Tony lets out a puff of air.

Pepper appears. Peter had heard her opening cabinets inside the kitchen and as she sits on the opposite side of the couch, she sets down a tea mug. He kinda wants tea as well, though he recognizes it is the same part of him that likes procrastination. Probably for the best Pepper only made her own cup.

“Why won’t you let me go to school tomorrow?” he asks in place of tea. “What if I don’t think I need time off?”

“Because I’m the king of avoidance strategies and I know exactly what you’re doing and it isn’t the slightest bit healthy.” comes his father’s prompt response.

He works his jaw as thoughts toss and turn a mile a minute through his headspace. Then, “How long are you planning on keeping me out of school?”

“Preferably until the end of the month,” says Tony.

Peter stands up. “A month?!”

“Sit down—”

“I can’t miss that much school!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!” he’s shrill, devastation and incomprehension pitching his voice. “You haven’t—”

“If you’d let me finish,” Tony finally speaks over top of him, “then you’d know that I plan on calling Midtown in the morning and ironing out all the details. Peter, you’ll have schoolwork to do. You’re not going to fall behind, I won’t allow it. But you _do_ need the time—”

Peter groans out a heavy gust of his frustration, yanking on his hair and finally sits back down.

“Pete,” Tony’s tone softens and the man sits down on the coffee table so they are face to face. Peter shifts away his gaze. “You do need the time off from school. You’ve been through the fucking wringer and you have to heal. Okay? I am doing this with your best interests and health in mind.”

His head tips down into his palms and Peter’s three seconds away from sobbing. “I don’t like it,” he admits through the lump at the back of his throat.

Tony sniffs. “I’m sorry you don’t see the benefits of healing at home. I am sorry, Pete.” a pause. “I won’t compromise on it either. Sometimes I have to make the hard decisions and those can include trumping your wants like going to school. Also,” there’s a hint of hesitation that Peter picks up on and causes him to peak up at his father with trepidation filling his belly. “The time off will give you more opportunities to see a grief counselor.”

He sits up straight. Therapists and counselors in general come with the stigma of embarrassment. Peter has been to a handful in his life and all but one of them had been useful. Tony has no knowledge on Peter’s dislike and distrust of them and how can Peter bring them up when they are already arguing about two separate things? Instead of handling it reasonably and confessing his hesitance, Peter blurts out,

“I still want to be Spider-Man.”

“Oh, we’re getting there, trust me,” Tony drawls.

Before Peter has the chance to press his suit further or Tony can reiterate his point on why Peter needs more time, Pepper speaks up.

“You did mention that particular conversation would be reopened at the end of his winter break.”

He isn’t fooled into thinking his soon-to-be stepmother is on his side, oh no; but a warm feeling he recognizes as love fills him up as Peter looks over at Pepper at her casual reminder.

“You did,” he adds.

After a beat Tony relents, “I did.”

So Peter takes initiative and starts his case. “I can help people. I saved you tonight.”

Pepper shifts until she’s angled to face both of them. “Excuse me?”

Tony groans.

“He fell off May’s building but I saved him with my webs.”

_“What?”_

“I’m fine, Pep.”

Pepper stews in thought, clearly debating if new information needs to be dealt with immediately. Something like steel hardens her eyes and she tells Tony, “We’re going to have a conversation about this later tonight.”

Peter doesn’t pay them much mind.

“Why won’t you allow me to keep being Spider-Man?” Peter gets to the heart of the matter. “I can help people; I have a responsibility to help people because of my powers.”

“We’ve already have this conversation,” comes out through gritted teeth. “You’re not responsible for anyone because you’ve got—”

“You’re a hero.”

“To some extent, yes, I guess I am.”

“You are my hero. So it’s hypocritical of you to be a hero and not allow me to patrol Queens.”

“Excuse me?”

“It is,” he stresses.

“It isn’t hypocritical, Peter. And do you wanna know why?” when Peter refrains from answering the rhetorical question, Tony continues on. “It’s because I am an adult who made that decision to be Iron Man and am fully aware of consequences that’ll follow it.”

“And you’re implying I’m not aware of the consequences?”

“I am,” nods Tony, “because there’s no way you can fathom the enormity of what could potentially lie in front of you if you continue down this path. There’s no way.”

“But that’s _my_ decision to make _not_ yours.” 

“Until you’re eighteen, it is my decision to make because I am absolutely _not okay_ sitting at home and waiting for my fifteen year old son to come home— _if_ you even come home at all— Pete, I can’t—” he abruptly cuts off.

“And you don’t think I’m not worried about losing you either?!” tears from his mouth before he even has time to contemplate it. “I’ve lost Ben, I’ve lost Mom, so… what? It’s okay if I lose you, too? But you don’t see me asking you to stop being Iron Man?”

Silence.

Then he says, “You said we’re a team? Well, part of being a team is accepting each other. Mom had a hard time accepting me for who I am. She was more worried about herself than me, eight times out of ten as over the last few years. Are you going to be that way as well? Because I didn’t think you would. You’ve _promised_ me— things are supposed to be different now.

“So if you want me, then Spider-Man is included. I— I’m all the things he is with or without the mask. You can’t say no to that because— then you’d be saying no to me. Your son. You’re a hero. All I’ve ever wanted is to be like you. To help people— and I _can_ help them! I can help people like you do. It’s what I’m good at, what I enjoy. Please don’t take this away from me; don’t make me lose something else I love.”

His chest is heaving at the end.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and right before his eyes close Peter notices they are wet.

“That— that’s emotional extortion.”

Under her breath, probably not meaning for anyone to hear her, Pepper snorts.

Corners of Peter’s own mouth twitches. Genuinely worried he may has affronted his father, Peter checks on Tony. His father’s head is tipped down and the angle hides his expression.

“Guess he really is yours, huh?”

Tony snorts a series of laughs at Pepper’s dry statement. Peter bites his lip, though it does little to hide his own amusement.

The atmosphere lightens considerably.

Peter waits for Tony to say something once their laughter dies down. He’s said his piece: now he waits for Tony’s verdict.

Brown eyes find his. Peter sits up straighter, fingers digging into the cushion, anticipation crawling through his belly passed his constricted lungs and settles in his dry mouth.

“If,” he starts, “this is a huge if, alright? If I agree to letting go out swinging throughout the city, there’s gonna be some massive ground rules, do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” he nods then shifts toward edge of the couch. Their knees knock together.

Tony’s gaze finds Pepper’s for a split second and when he turns back to Peter he exhales. “At the end of the month, or whenever you go back to school, we can discuss when it is you can go out and be Spider-Man again. Ah-ah! Nope, listening to me still.” he talks right over Peter’s attempt to protest. “Don’t think I’m kidding when I say you need time to recuperate. No school, no Spider-Man. Also, it’ll give me and Pepper enough time to establish our baseline ground rules. Then at the end of the month, we will revisit this conversation and make a contract of sorts.”

Peter makes a face at the terminology. “I’m not a business deal.”

“You’re not, of course; you’re my kid. So that means you have to sign in blood.”

Peter isn’t expecting the tone and looks up sharply.

Tony guffaws.

“He’s kidding,” Pepper reassures.

Tony’s raised eyebrows say another story. Peter isn’t sure which adult he is inclined to believe.

Then his father is clearing his throat and while his smile lessens it does not diminish fully. “Are my terms acceptable?”

“For now.”

Tony smirks, “Alright, Mister Hotshot; off to bed with you.”

Peter springs upwards and shuffles around his father’s legs.

“Peter.”

He turns at Pepper’s call.

She holds out his cell phone.

He swipes it and makes a run for it.

Behind him he hears Tony complain, “I thought he’d get it back tomorrow?”

“Guess this is my version of watching movies while he’s grounded then.”

Peter shuts his door with a smile.

“I’m afraid you’re not allowed to lock your door tonight, Peter.” FRIDAY sings from on high.

“What?” he frowns at his doorknob. FRIDAY’s installation is limited throughout the penthouse, thanks to Pepper’s needs for limits, but that does not limit her tattletale abilities in the slightest.

“Boss’s orders.” if A.I.s could be smug, that’s how Peter could describe FRIDAY right now.

Peter groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUCH LOVE FROM ME! scream with me below????? ♥️
> 
> part of the reason I went so long between updates is because I'm dappling in other writings like starting an [irondad bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1478276) as well as a [thirteen nights of halloween](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1495847) if anyone is interested in checking them out! as always, scream with me on [tumblr](https://ardenskyedarcy221b.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> It's gonna be a slow build up, but I don't wanna rush into the action. Please leave comments and kudos because they're better than caffeine. <3
> 
> Also, I’m gonna be hesitant with tags so if anything seems dicey and you’d like to know beforehand, please don’t be afraid to ask.


End file.
